GIFT   OF 
A.    F.   Morrison 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


POEMS 


BY 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY 


NEW  YORK : 
THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL   &   CO. 


GIFT. Of 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Andromeda 9 

Hypotheses  Hypochondriacs 36 

Trehill  Well 39 

In  an  Illuminated  Missal 40 

The  Weird  Lady 41 

Palinodia 43 

A  Hope 44 

The  Poetry  of  a  Root  Crop 45 

Child  Ballad 45 

Airly  Beacon 46 

Sappho 47 

The  Bad  Squire 48 

Scotch  Song 51 

The  Young  Knight 52 

A  New  Forest  Ballad • 53 

The  Red  King 55 

The  Outlaw 58 

Sing  Heigh-ho ! 60 

A  March 6r 

A  Lament 62 

The  Night  Bird 62 

The  Dead  Church 63 

A  Parable  from  Liebig 64 

The  Starlings 64 

Old  and  New 65 

M103139 


IV  CONTENTS. 


The  Watchman 65 

The  World's  Age 66 

The  Sands  of  Dee 67 

The  Tide  Rock 68 

Elegiacs 68 

Dartside 69 

My  Hunting  Song 70 

Alton  Locke's  Song 71 

The  Day  of  the  Lord 71 

A  Christmas  Carol 72 

The  Oubit 73 

The  Three  Fishers 74 

Sonnet 75 

Margaret  to  Dolcino 75 

Dolcino  to  Margaret 76 

The  Ugly  Princess 76 

Sonnet 77 

The  Swan-Neck 78 

A  Thought  from  the  Rhine 79 

The  Longbeards'  Saga 80 

Saint  Maura 85 

On  the  Death  of  a  Certain  Journal 93 

Down  to  the  Mothers 94 

To  Miss  Mitford  •. 95 

Ballad  of  Earl  Haldan's  Daughter 95 

Frank  Leigh's  Song 97 

Ode  to  the  North-East  Wind 97 

A  Farewell 99 

To  G.  A.  G ioo 

The  South  Wind        101 

The  Invitation 101 

The  Find 105 

Fishing  Song 106 

The  Last  Buccaneer  .106 


CONTENTS. 


The  Knight's  Return 108 

Pen-y-Gwrydd 109 

Ode  on  the  Installation  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire no 

Songs  from  "The  Water-Babies"— 

The  Tide  River , 114 

Young  and  Old ..115 

The  Summer  Sea 116 

My  Little  Doll 116 

The  Knight's  Leap 117 

The  Song  of  the  Little  Baltung 118 

On  the  Death  of  Leopold,  King  of  the  Belgians 125 

Easter  Week 125 

Drifting  Away 126 

Christmas  Day 127 

September  21,  1870 130 

The  Mango-Tree ' 131 

The  Priest's  Heart 133 

"  Qu'est  qu'il  dit " 134 

The  Legend  of  La  Brea 135 

Hymn 141 

The  Delectable  Day 142 

Juventus  Mundi 143 

Valentine's  Day 145 

Ballad 146 

The  Saint's  Tragedy 149 

Notes 313 


ANDROMEDA 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


POEMS. 


ANDROMEDA. 

OVER  the  sea,  past  Crete,  on  the  Syrian  shore  to  the  south- 
ward, 

Dwells  in  the  well-tilled  lowland  a  dark-haired  ^Ethiop  people, 
Skilful  with  needle  and  loom,  and  the  arts  of  the  dyer  and 

carver, 
Skilful,  but  feeble  of  heart;  for  they  know  not  the  lords  of 

Olympus, 
Lovers    of    men ;    neither   broad-browed    Zeus,  nor   Pallas 

Athene*, 

Teacher  of  wisdom  to  heroes,  bestower  of  might  in  the  battle  ; 
Share  not  the  cunning  of  Hermes,  nor  list  to  the  songs  of 

Apollo. 
Fearing  the  stars  ^of  the  sky,  and  the  roll  of  the  blue  salt 

water, 
Fearing  all  things  that  have  life  in  the  womb  of  the  seas  and 

the  rivers, 
Eating  no  fish  to  this  day,  nor  ploughing  the  main,  like  the 

Phcenics, 
Manful  with  black-beaked  ships,  they  abide  in  a  sorrowful 

region, 
Vexed  with  the  earthquake,  and  flame,  and  the  sea-floods, 

scourge  of  Poseidon. 
Whelming  the  dwellings  of   men,  and  the  toils  of  the 

slow-footed  oxen, 

9 


10  ANDROMEDA. 


Drowning  ih«;  bailey  ?nd  flax,  and  the  hard-earned  gold  of 

the  harvest, 

Up  to  ;.ne  Hillside  vines,  and  the  pastures  skirting  the  wood- 
land, 

Inland  the  floods  came  yearly ;  and  after  the  waters  a  mon- 
ster, 
Bred  of  the  slime,  like  the  worms  which  are  bred  from  the 

slime  of  the  Nile-bank, 
Shapeless,  a  terror  to  see ;  and  by  night  it  swam  out  to  the 

seaward, 
Daily  returning  to  feed  with  the  dawn,  and  devoured  of  the 

fairest, 
Cattle,  and  children,  and  maids,  till  the  terrified  people  fled 

inland. 
Fasting  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  they  came,  both  the  king 

and  his  people, 
Came  to  the  mountain  of  oaks,  to  the  house  of  the  terrible 

sea-gods, 
Hard  by  the  gulf  in  the  rocks,  where  of  old  the  world-wide 

deluge 
Sank  to  the  inner  abyss ;  and  the  lake  where  the  fish  of  the 

goddess, 
Holy,  undying,   abide;   whom   the  priests  feed   daily  with 

dainties. 
There  to  the  mystical  fish,  high-throned  in  her  chamber  of 

cedar, 
Burnt  they  the  fat  of  the  flock ;  till  the  flame  shone  far  to  the 

seaward. 
Three  days  fasting  they  prayed :  but  the  fourth  day  the  priests 

of  the  goddess, 
Cunning  in  spells,  cast  lots,  to  discover  the   crime   of  the 

people. 
All  day  long  they  cast,  till  the  house  of  the  monarch  was 

taken, 


ANDROMEDA.  1 1 


Cepheus,  king  of  the  land;  and  the  faces  of  all  gathered 

blackness. 

Then  once  more  they  cast ;  and  Cassiopceia  was  taken, 
Deep-bosomed  wife  of  the  king,  whom  oft  far-seeing  Apollo 
Watched  well-pleased  from  the  welkin,  the  fairest  of  ^Ethiop 

women  : 
Fairest,  save  only  her  daughter ;  for  down  to  the  ankle  her 

tresses 

Rolled,  blue-black  as  the  night,  ambrosial,  joy  to  beholders, 
Awful  and  fair  she  arose,  most  like  in  her  coming  to  Here, 
Queen  before  whom  the  Immortals  arise,  as  she  comes  on 

Olympus, 
Out  of  the  chamber  of  gold,  which  her  son  Hephsestos  has 

wrought  her. 
Such  in  her  stature  and  eyes,  and  the  broad  white  light  of  her 

forehead. 
Stately  she  came  from  her  place,  and  she  spoke  in  the  midst 

of  the  people. 
"  Pure  are  my  hands  from  blood :  most  pure  this  heart  in 

my  bosom. 

Yet  one  fault  I  remember  this  day ;  one  word  have  I  spoken ; 
Rashly  I  spoke  on  the  shore,  and  I  dread  lest  the  sea  should 

have  heard  it. 
Watching  my  child  at  her  bath,  as  she  plunged  in  the  joy  of 

her  girlhood, 
Fairer  I  called  her  in  pride   than  Atergati,  queen  of  the 

ocean. 
Judge  ye  if  this  be  my  sin,  for  I  know  none  other."     She 

ended  ; 
Wrapping  her  head  in  her  mantle  she  stood,  and  the  people 

were  silent. 
Answered   the   dark-browed    priests,    "No   word,   once 

spoken,  returneth, 
Even  if  uttered  unwitting.     Shall  gods  excuse  our  rashness  ? 


12  ANDROMEDA. 


That  which  is  done,  that  abides  ;  and  the  wrath  of  the  sea  is 

against  us ; 
Hers,  and  the  wrath  of  her  brother,  the  Sun-god,  lord  of  the 

sheepfolds. 
Fairer  than  her  hast  thou  boasted  thy  daughter?     Ah  folly! 

for  hateful, 

Hateful  are  they  to  the  gods,  whoso,  impious,  liken  a  mortal, 
Fair  though  he  be,  to  their  glory ;  and  hateful  is  that  which  is 

likened, 
Grieving  the  eyes  of  their  pride,  and  abominate,  doomed  to 

their  anger. 
What  shall  be  likened  to  gods  ?     The  unknown,  who  deep  in 

the  darkness 

Ever  abide,  twyformed,  many-handed,  terrible,  shapeless. 
Woe  to  the  queen ;  for  the  land  is  defiled,  and  the  people 

accursed. 

Take  thou  her  therefore  by  night,  thou  ill-starred  Cassiopoeia, 
Take  her  with  us  in  the  night,  when  the  moon  sinks  low  to 

the  westward  ; 
Bind  her  aloft  for  a  victim,   a   prey  for  the  gorge  of  the 

monster, 
Far  on  the  sea-girt  rock,  which  is  washed  by  the  surges  for 

ever; 
So  may  the  goddess  accept  her,  and  so  may  the  land  make 

atonement, 
Purged  by  her  blood  from  its  sin :  so  obey  thou  the  doom  of 

the  rulers." 

Bitter  in  soul  they  went  out,  Cepheus  and  Cassiopceia, 
Bitter  in  soul ;  and  their  hearts  whirled  round,  as  the  leaves 

in  the  eddy. 
Weak  was  the  queen,   and  rebelled :   but  the  king,   like  a 

shepherd  of  people, 
Willed  not  the  land  should  waste  ;  so  he  yielded  the  life  of  his 

daughter. 


ANDROMEDA.  13 


Deep  in  the  wane  of  the  night,  as  the  moon  sank  low  to 

the  westward, 
They  by  the  shade  of  the  cliffs,  with  the  horror  of  darkness 

around  them, 
Stole,  as  ashamed,  to  a  deed  which  became  not  the  light  of 

the  sunshine, 
Slowly,  the  priests,  and  the  queen,  and  the  virgin  bound  in 

the  galley. 
Slowly  they  rowed   to  the  rocks :   but  Cepheus  far  in  the 

palace 
Sate  in  the  midst  of  the  hall,  on  his  throne,  like  a  shepherd  of 

people, 
Choking  his  woe,  dry-eyed,  while  the   slaves  wailed   loudly 

around  him. 
They  on  the  sea-girt  rock,  which  is  washed  by  the  surges 

forever, 
Set  her  in  silence,  the  guiltless,  aloft  with  her  face  to  the 

eastward. 
Under  a  crag  of  the  stone,  where  a  ledge  sloped  down  to  the 

water ; 
There  they  set  Andromeden,  most  beautiful,  shaped  like  a 

goddess, 
Lifting  her  long  white  arms  wide-spread  to  the  walls  of  the 

basalt, 
Chaining  them,  ruthless,  with  brass ;  and  they  called  on  the 

might  of  the  Rulers. 
"  Mystical  fish  of  the  seas,  dread  Queen  whom  ^Ethiops 

honor, 
Whelming  the  land  in  thy  wrath,  unavoidable,  sharp  as  the 

sting-ray, 
Thou,  and    thy  brother  the   Sun,  brain-smiting,  lord  of  the 

sheepfold, 
Scorching  the  earth  all  day,  and  then  resting  at  night  in  thy 

bosom, 


14  ANDROMEDA. 


Take  ye  this  one  life  for  many,  appeased  by  the  blood  of  a 

maiden, 
Fairest,  and  born  of  the  fairest,  a  queen,  most  priceless  of 

victims." 
Thrice  they  spat  as  they  went  by  the  maid :  but  her 

mother  delaying 
Fondled  her  child  to  the  last,  heart-crushed ;  and  the  warmth 

of  her  weeping 
Fell  on  the  breast  of  the  maid,  as  her  woe  broke  forth  into 

wailing. 
"  Daughter !  my  daughter !  forgive  me  !     O  curse  not  the 

murderess  !    Curse  not ! 
How  have  I  sinned,  but  in  -love  ?     Do  the  gods  grudge  glory 

to  mothers  ? 
Loving  I  bore  thee  in  vain  in  the  fate-cursed  bride-bed  of 

Cepheus, 
Loving  I  fed  thee  and  tended,  and  loving  rejoiced  in  thy 

beauty, 
Blessing  thy  limbs  as  I  bathed  them,  and  blessing  thy  locks 

as  I  combed  them  ; 
Decking  thee,  ripening  to  woman,  I  blest  thee  :  yet  blessing 

I  slew  thee  ! 
How  have  I  sinned,  but  in  love  ?     O  swear  to  me,  swear  to 

thy  mother, 
Never  to  haunt  me  with  curse,  as  I  go  to  the  grave  in  my 

sorrow, 
Childless  and  lone :  may  the  gods  never  send  me  another,  to 

slay  it ! 
See,  I  embrace  thy  knees  —  soft  knees,  where  no  babe  will 

be  fondled  — 
Swear  to  me  never  to  curse  me,  the  hapless  one,  not  in  the  • 

death-pang." 
Weeping  she  clung  to  the  knees  of  the  maid  ;  and  the 

maid  low  answered  — 


ANDROMEDA. 


"  Curse  thee  !     Not  in  the  death  pang !  "     The  heart  of  the 

lady  was  lightened. 
Slowly  she  went  by  the  ledge ;  and  the  maid  was  alone  in  the 

darkness. 
Watching  the  pulse  of  the  oars  die  down,  as  her  own  died 

with  them, 
Tearless,  dumb  with  amaze   she  stood,  as  a  storm-stunned 

nestling 

Fallen  from  bough  or  from  eave  lies  dumb,  which  the  home- 
going  herdsman 

Fancies  a  stone,  till  he  catches  the  light  of  its  terrified  eyeball. 
So  through  the  long  long  hours  the  maid  stood  helpless  and 

hopeless, 
Wide-eyed,  downward   gazing   in   vain   at   the  black   blank 

darkness. 
Feebly  at  last  she  began,  while  wild  thoughts  bubbled  within 

her  — 
"  Guiltless  I  am  :  why  thus,  then  ?     Are  gods  more  ruthless 

than  mortals  ? 
Have  they  no  mercy  for  youth  ?  no  love  for  the  souls  who 

have  loved  them  ? 

Even  as  I  loved  thee,  dread  sea,  as  I  played  by  thy  margin, 
Blessing  thy  wave  as  it  cooled  me,  thy  wind  as  it  breathed  on 

my  forehead, 
Bowing  my  head  to  thy  tempest,  and  opening  my  heart  to  thy 

children, 
Silvery  fish,  wreathed  shell,  and  the  strange  lithe  things  of 

the  water, 
Tenderly  casting  them  back,  as  they  gasped  on  the  beach  in 

the  sunshine, 
Home  to  their  mother  —  in  vain!  for  mine  sits  childless  in 

anguish ! 
Oh  false  sea  !  false  sea !  I  dreamed  what  I  dreamed  of  thy 

goodness ; 


1 6  ANDROMEDA. 


Dreamed  of  a  smile  in  thy  gleam,  of  a  laugh  in  the  plash  of 

thy  ripple  : 
False  and  devouring  thou  art,  and  the  great  world  dark  and 

despiteful." 
Awed  by  her  own  rash  words  she  was  still :  and  her  eyes 

to  the  seaward 
Looked  for  an  answer  of  wrath :  far  off,  in  the  heart  of  the 

darkness, 
Bright  white  mist  rose  slowly ;  beneath  them  the  wandering 

ocean 
Glimmered  and  glowed  to  the  deepest  abyss ;  and  the  knees 

of  the  maiden 
Trembled  and  sank  in  her  fear,  as  afar,  like  a  dawn  in  the 

midnight, 
Rose  from  their  seaweed  chamber  the  choir  of  the  mystical 

sea-maids. 
Onward  toward  her  they  came,  and  her  heart  beat  loud  at 

their  coming, 
Watching  the  bliss  of  the  gods,  as  they  wakened  the  cliffs 

with  their  laughter. 
Onward  they  came  in  their  joy,  and  before  them  the  roll  of 

the  surges 
Sank,  as  the  breeze  sank  dead,  into  smooth  green  foam-flecked 

marble, 

Awed ;  and  the  crags  of  the  cliff,  and  the  pines  of  the  moun- 
tain were  silent. 
Onward   they  came  in  their  joy,  and  around  them  the 

lamps  of  the  sea-nymphs, 

Myriad  fiery  globes,  swam  panting  and  heaving ;  and  rain- 
bows 
Crimson  and  azure  and  emerald,  were  broken  in  star-showers, 

lighting 
Far  through  the  wine-dark  depths  of  the  crystal,  the  gardens 

of  Nereus, 


ANDROMEDA.  \J 


Coral  and  sea-fan  and  tangle,  the  blooms  and  the  palms  o£ 

the  ocean. 
Onward  they  came  in   their  joy,   more  white  than  the 

foam  which  they  scattered, 
Laughing  and  singing,  and  tossing  and  twining,  while  eager, 

the  Tritons 
Blinded  with  kisses  their  eyes,  unreproved,  and  above  them 

in  worship 
Hovered   the  terns,   and  the   seagulls  swept  past  them  on 

silvery  pinions 
Echoing  softly  their  laughter;   around  them   the  wantoning 

dolphins 
Sighed  as  they  plunged,  full  of  love ;  and  the  great  sea-horses 

which  bore  them 
Curved  up  their  crests  in  their  pride  to  the  delicate  arms  of 

the  maidens, 

Pawing  the  spray  into  gems,  till  a  fiery  rainfall,  unharming, 
Sparkled  and  gleamed  on  the  limbs  of  the  nymphs,  and  the 

coils  of  the  mermen. 
Onward  they  went  in  their  joy,  bathed  round  with  the 

fiery  coolness. 
Needing   nor    sun    nor    moon,    self-lighted,    immortal :    but 

others, 

Pitiful,  floated  in  silence  apart ;  in  their  bosoms  the  sea-boys, 
Slain  by  the  wrath  of  the  seas,  swept  down  by  the  anger  of 

Nereus , 
Hapless,  whom  never  again  on  strand  or  on  quay  shall  their 

mothers 
Welcome  with  garlands  and  vows  to  the  temple,  but  wearily 

pining 
Gaze  over  island  and  bay  for  the  sails  of  the  sunken  ;  they 

heedless 
Sleep  in  soft  bosoms  forever,  and  dream  of  the  surge  and  the 

sea-maids. 


1 8  ANDROMEDA. 


Onward  they  passed  in  their  joy  ;  on  their  brows  neither 

sorrow  nor  anger ; 

Self-sufficing,  as  gods,  never  heeding  the  woe  of  the  maiden. 
She  would  have  shrieked  for  their  mercy ;  but  shame  made 

her  dumb ;  and  their  eyeballs 
Stared  on  her  careless  and  still,  like  the  eyes  in  the  house  of 

the  idols. 
Seeing   they   saw   not,    and    passed,  like   a   dream,   on    the 

murmuring  ripple. 
Stunned   by  the   wonder  she   gazed,  wide-eyed,  as  the 

glory  departed. 
"  Oh    fair    shapes !    far    fairer    than   I !     Too    fair    to    be 

ruthless ! 
Gladden  mine  eyes  once  more  with  your  splendor,  unlike  to 

my  fancies ; 
You,  then,  smiled  in  the  sea-gleam,  and  laughed  in  the  plash 

of  the  ripple. 
Awful  I  deemed  you  and  formless ;  inhuman,  monstrous  as 

idols ; 
Lo,  when  ye  came,  ye  were  women,  more  loving  and  lovelier, 

only  ; 
Like  in  all  else  ;  and  I  blest  you  :  why  blest  ye  not  me  for  my 

worship  ? 

Had  you  no  mercy  for  me,  thus  guiltless  ?     Ye  pitied  the  sea- 
boys  : 
Why  not  me,  then,  more  hapless  by  far?     Does  your  sight 

and  your  knowledge 
End  with  the   marge  of  the  waves  ?     Is  the  world  which  ye 

dwell  in  not  our  world  ?  " 

Over  the  mountain  aloft -ran   a  rush  and  a  roll  and  a 

roaring ; 

Downward  the  breeze  came  indignant,  and  leapt  with  a  howl 
to  the  water. 


ANDROMEDA.  19 


Roaring  in  cranny  and  crag,  till  the  pillars  and  clefts  of  the 

basalt 
Rang  like  a  god-swept  lyre,  and  her  brain  grew  mad  with  the 

noises ; 
Crashing  and  lapping  of  waters,  and  sighing  and  tossing  of 

weed-beds, 
Gurgle  and  whisper  and  hiss  of  the  foam,  while  thundering 

surges 
Boomed  in  the  wave-worn  halls,  as  they  champed  at  the  roots 

of  the  mountain. 
Hour  after  hour  in  the  darkness  the  wind  rushed  fierce  to  the 

landward, 
Drenching  the  maiden  with  spray  ;  she  shivering,  weary  and 

drooping, 
Stood  with  her  heart  full  of   thoughts,  till   the   foam-crests 

gleamed  in  the  twilight, 
Leaping  and  laughing  around,  and  the  east  grew  red  with  the 

dawning. 
Then  on  the  ridge  of  the  hills  rose  the  broad  bright  sun 

in  his  glory, 
Hurling  his  arrows  abroad  on  the  glittering  crests  of  the 

surges, 
Gilding  the  soft  round  bosoms  of  wood,  and  the  downs  of  the 

coastland ; 
Gilding  the  weeds  at  her  feet,  and  the  foam-laced  teeth  of  the 

ledges, 
Showing  the  maiden  her  home  through  the  veil  of  her  locks, 

as  they  floated 
Glistening,  damp  with  the  spray,  in  a  long  black  cloud  to  the 

landward. 

High  in  the  far-off  glens  rose  thin  blue  curls  from  the  home- 
steads ; 
Softly  the  low  of  the  herds,  and  the  pipe  of  the  outgoing 

herdsman, 


20  ANDROMEDA. 


Slid  to  her  ear  on   the  water,   and  melted  her  heart   into 

weeping. 
Shuddering,  she  tried  to  forget  them ;  and  straining  her  eyes 

to  the  seaward, 
Watched  for  her  doom,  as  she  wailed,  but  in  vain,  to  the 

terrible  Sun-god. 
"  Dost  thou  not  pity  me,  Sun,  though  thy  wild  dark  sister 

be  ruthless ; 

Dost  thou  not  pity  me  here,  as  thou  seest  me  desolate,  weary, 
Sickened  with  shame  and  despair,  like  a  kid  torn  young  from 

its  mother  ? 
What  if  my  beauty  insult  thee,  then  blight  it :  but  me  —  Oh 

spare  me ! 
Spare  me  yet,  ere  he  be  here,  fierce,  tearing,  unbearable ! 

See  me, 
See  me,  how  tender  and  soft,  and  thus  helpless !     See  how  I 

shudder, 
Fancying  only  my  doom.     Wilt  thou  shine  thus  bright,  when 

it  takes  me  ? 

Are  there  no  deaths  save  this,  great  Sun  ?      No  fiery  arrow, 
Lightning,    or    deep-mouthed    wave  ?      Why   thus  ?      What 

music  in  shrieking, 
Pleasure  in  warm  live  limbs  torn  slowly  ?     And  dar'st  thou 

behold  them  ! 
Oh,  thou  hast  watched  worse  deeds !     All  sights  are  alike  to 

thy  brightness ! 
What  if  thou  waken  the  birds  to  their  song,  dost  thou  waken 

no  sorrow  ; 
Waken  no  sick  to  their  pain ;   no  captive  to  wrench  at  his 

fetters  ? 
Smile  on  the  garden  and  fold,  and  on  maidens  who  sing  at 

the  milking; 
Flash  into  tapestried  chambers,  and  peep  in  the  eyelids  of 

lovers, 


AXDKOMEDA.  21 


Showing  the  blissful  their  bliss  —  Dost  love,  then,  the  place 

where  thou  smilest  ? 
Lovest  thou  cities  aflame,  fierce  blows,  and  the  shrieks  of  the 

widow  ? 
Lovest  thou  corpse-strewn  fields,  as  thou  lightest  the  path  of 

the  vulture  ? 
Lovest  thou  these,  that  thou  gazest  so  gay  on  my  tears,  and 

my  mother's, 

Laughing  alike  at  the  horror  of  one,  and  the  bliss  of  another  ? 
What  dost  thou  care,  in  thy  sky,  for  the  joys  and  the  sorrows 

of  mortals  ? 
Colder  art  thou  than  the  nymphs  :  in  thy  broad  bright  eye  is 

no  seeing. 
Hadst  thou  a  soul  —  as  much  soul  as  the  slaves  in  the  house 

of  my  father, 
Would'st  thou  not  save  ?     Poor  thralls  !  they  pitied  me,  clung 

to  me  weeping, 

Kissing  my  hands  and  my  feet  —  What  are  gods,  more  ruth- 
less than  mortals  ? 
Worse  than  the  souls  which  they  rule  ?     Let  me  die  :  they 

war  not  with  ashes  !  " 
Sudden  she  ceased,  with  a  shriek  :  in  the  spray,  like  a 

hovering  foam-bow, 
Hung,  more  fair  than  the  foam-bow,  a  boy  in  the  bloom  of 

his  manhood, 

Golden-haired,  ivory-limbed,  ambrosial ;  over  his  shoulder 
Hung  for  a  veil  of  his  beauty  the  gold-fringed  folds  of  the 

goat-skin, 
Bearing  the  brass  of  his  shield,  as  the  sun  flashed  clear  on  its 

clearness. 
Curved  on  his  thigh  lay  a  falchion,  and  under  the  gleam  of 

his  helmet 
Eyes  more  blue  than  the  main  shone  awful ;  around  him 

Athene* 


22  ANDROMEDA. 


Shed    in    her    love    such    grace,    such    state,    and   terrible 

daring. 

Hovering  over  the  water  he  came,  upon  glittering  pinions, 
Living,  a  wonder,  outgrown  from  the  tight-laced  gold  of  his 

sandals ; 
Bounding  from  billow  to  billow,  and  sweeping  the  crests  like 

a  sea-gull ; 
Leaping  the  gulfs  of  the  surge,  as  he  laughed  i-n  the  joy  of  his 

leaping. 
Fair  and  majestic  he  sprang  to  the  rock ;  and  the  maiden  in 

wonder 
Gazed  for  a  while,  and  then  hid  in  the  dark-rolling  wave  of 

her  tresses, 
Fearful,  the  light  of  her  eyes ;  while  the  boy  (for  her  sorrow 

had  awed  him) 
Blushed  at  her  blushes,  and  vanished,  like  mist  on  the  cliffs 

at  the  sunrise. 
Fearful  at  length  she  looked  forth :  he  was  gone  :  she,  wild 

with  amazement, 
Wailed  for  her  mother  aloud :  but  the  wail  of  the  wind  only 

answered. 
Sudden  he  flashed  into  sight,  by  her  side ;  in  his  pity  and 

anger 
Moist  were  his  eyes ;  and  his  breath  like  a  rose-bed,  as  bolder 

and  bolder, 
Hovering  under  her  brows,  like  a  swallow  that  haunts  by  the 

house-eaves, 
Delicate-handed,  he  lifted  the  veil    of   her   hair ;  while   the 

maiden 

Motionless,  frozen  with  fear,  wept  loud ;  till  his  lips  unclosing 
Poured  from  their  pearl-strung  portal  the  musical  wave  of  his 

wonder. 
"Ah,"  well  spoke  she,  the  wise  one,  the  grey-eyed  Pallas 

Athene', — 


A  XD  ROM  ED  A.  2$ 


"  Known  to  Immortals  alone  are  the  prizes  which  lie  for  the 

heroes 

Ready  prepared  at  their  feet;  for  requiring  a  little,  the  rulers 
Pay  back  the  loan  tenfold  to  the  man  who,  careless  of  plea- 
sure, 

Thirsting  for  honor  and  toil,  fares  forth  on  a  perilous  errand, 
Led  by  the  guiding  of  gods,  and  strong  in  the  strength  of 

Immortals. 
Thus  have  they  led  me  to  thee :  from   afar,  unknowing,  I 

marked  thee, 
Shining,  a  snow-white  cross  on  the  dark-green  walls  of  the 

sea-cliff ; 

Carven  in  marble  I  deemed  thee,  a  perfect  work  of  the  crafts- 
man. 

Likeness  of  Amphitrite,  or  far-famed  Queen  Cythereia. 
Curious  I  came,  till  I  saw  how  thy  tresses  streamed  in  the 

sea-wind, 
Glistening,  black  as  the  night,  and  thy  lips  moved  slow  in  thy 

wailing. 
Speak  again  now  —  Oh  speak  !     For  my  soul  is  stirred  to 

avenge  thee ; 
Tell  me  what  barbarous  horde,  without  law,  unrighteous  and 

heartless, 
Hateful  to  gods  and  to  men,  thus  have  bound  thee,  a  shame 

to  the  sunlight, 
Scorn  and  prize   to   the   sailor:   but  my  prize  now;  for  a 

coward, 
Coward  and   shameless  were  he,  who  so  finding  a  glorious 

jewel 
Cast  on  the  wayside  by  fools,  would  not  win  it  and  keep  it 

and  wear  it, 

Even  as  I  will  thee ;  for  I  swear  by  the  head  of  my  father, 
Bearing  thee  over  the  sea-wave,  to  wed   thee  in  Argos  the 

fruitful, 


24  AXDROMRDA. 


Beautiful,  meed  of  my  toil  no  less  than  this  head  which   I 

carry, 
Hidden  here  fearful  —  O  speak  !  " 

But  the  maid,  still  dumb  with  amazement, 
Watered  her  bosom  with  weeping,  and  longed  for  her  home 

and  her  mother. 
Beautiful,  eager,  he  wooed  her,  and  kissed  off  her  tears  as  he 

hovered, 

Roving  at  will,   as  a  bee,  on  the  brows  of  a  rock  nymph- 
haunted, 
Garlanded    over   with    vine,  and    acanthus,  and    clambering 

roses, 
Cool  in  the  fierce  still  noon,  where  streams  glance  clear  in 

the  mossbeds, 
Hums  on  from  blossom  to  blossom,  and  mingles  the  sweets 

as  he  tastes  them. 
Beautiful,  eager,  he  kissed  her,  and  clasped  her  yet  closer 

and  closer, 
Praying  her  still  to  speak  — 

"  Not  cruel  nor  rough  did  my  mother 

Bear  me  to  broad-browed  Zeus  in  the  depths  of  the  brass- 
covered  dungeon ; 
Neither  in  vain,  as  I  think,  have  I  talked  with  the  cunning  of 

Hermes, 
Face   unto   face,    as    a   friend ;    or    from    gray-eyed    Pallas 

Athene 
Learnt  what  is  fit,  and  respecting  myself,  to  respect  in  my 

dealings 
Those  whom  the  gods  should  love ;  so  fear  not ;  to  chaste 

espousals 
Only  I  woo  thee,  and  swear,  that  a  queen,  and  alone  without 

rival 
By  me  thou  sittest  in  Argos  of  Hellas,  throne  of  my  fathers, 


ANDROMEDA.  2$ 


Worshipped  by  fair-haired  kings  :  why  callest  thou  still  on  thy 

mother  ? 
Why  did   she   leave   thee   thus  here  ?     For  no  foeman  has 

bound  thee  ;  no  foeman 
Winning  with  strokes  of  the  sword  such  a  prize,  would  so 

leave  it  behind  him." 

Just  as  at  first  some  colt,  wild-eyed,  with  quivering  nostril, 
Plunges  in  fear  of  the  curb,  and  the  fluttering  robes  of  the 

rider ; 

Soon,  grown  bold  by  despair,  submits  to  the  will  of  his  master, 
Tamer  and  tamer  each  hour,  and  at  last,  in  the  pride  of 

obedience, 
Answers  the  heel  with  a  curvet,  and  arches  his  neck  to  be 

fondled, 
Cowed  by  the  need  that  maid  grew  tame ;  while   the   hero 

indignant 
Tore  at  the  fetters  which  held  her  :  the  brass,  too  cunningly 

tempered, 
Held  to  the  rock  by  the  nails,  deep  wedged  :  till  the  boy,  red 

with  anger, 
Drew   from   his   ivory   thigh,   keen   flashing,    a   falchion   of 

diamond  — 
"  Now  let  the  work  of  the  smith  try  strength  with  the  arms  of 

Immortals ! " 
Dazzling  it  fell ;  and  the  blade,  as  the  vine  hook  shears  off 

the  vine-bough, 
Carved  through  the  strength  of  the  brass,  till  her  arms  fell 

soft  on  his  shoulder. 
Once  she  essayed  to  escape :  but  the  ring  of  the  water  was 

round  her, 
Round  her  the  ring  of  his  arms ;  and  despairing  she  sank  on 

his  bosom. 
Then,  like  a  fawn  when  startled,  she  looked  with  a  shriek  to 

the  seaward 


26  ANDROMEDA. 


"  Touch  me  not,  wretch  that  I  am  !      For  accursed,  a 

shame  and  a  hissing, 

Guiltless,  accurst  no  less,  I  await  the  revenge  of  the  sea-gods. 
Yonder  it  comes  !  Ah  go  !  Let  me  perish  unseen,  if  I  perish  ! 
Spare  me  the  shame  of  thine  eyes,  when  merciless  fangs  must 

tear  me 
Piecemeal !     Enough  to  endure  by  myself  in  the  light  of  the 

sunshine 
Guiltless,  the  death  of  a  kid  !  " 

But  the  boy  still  lingered  around  her, 
Loth,  like  a  boy,  to  forego  her,  and  waken  the  cliffs  with  his 

laughter. 
"  Yon  is  the  foe,  then,  a  beast  of  the  sea  ?     I  had  deemed  him 

immortal. 

Titan,  or  Proteus'  self,  or  Nereus,  foeman  of  sailors : 
Yet  would   I   fight  with  them   all,  but   Poseidon,   shaker  of 

mountains, 
Uncle   of  mine,   whom  I  fear,   as  is  fit;  for  he   haunts  on 

Olympus, 
Holding  the  third  of  the  world ;  and  the  gods  all  rise  at  his 

coming. 
Unto  none   else  will    I   yield,  god-helped  :  how  then   to   a 

monster, 
Child  of   the    earth    and   of   night,    unreasoning,    shapeless, 

accursed  ? " 
"  Art  thou,  too,  then  a  god  ?  " 

"  No  god  I,"  smiling  he  answered  ; 
"  Mortal   as-  thou,  yet  divine :   but  mortal  the  herds  of  the 

ocean, 
Equal  to  men   in  that  only,  and  less  in  all  else  ;   for  they 

nourish 
Blindly  the  life  of  the  lips,  untaught   by  the  gods,  without 

wisdom  : 
Shame  if  I  fled  before  such  ! " 


ANDROMEDA.  2*J 


In  her  heart  new  life  was  enkindled, 
Worship  and  trust,  fair  parents  of  love  :  but  she  answered 

him  sighing. 
"  Beautiful,  why  wilt  thou  die  ?     Is  the  light  of  the  sun, 

then,  so  worthless, 
Worthless  to  sport  with  thy  fellows  in  flowery  glades  of  the 

forest, 
Under  the  broad   green   oaks,  where   never   again   shall   I 

wander, 
Tossing  the  ball  with  my  maidens,  or  wreathing  the  altar  in 

garlands, 
Careless,  with  dances  and  songs,  till  the  glens  rang  loud  to 

our  laughter. 
Too  full  of  death  the  sad  earth  is  already :  the  halls  full  of 

weepers, 
Quarried  by  tombs  all  cliffs,  and  the  bones  gleam  white  on 

the  sea-floor, 
Numberless,  gnawn  by  the  herds  who  attend  on  the  pitiless 

sea-gods, 
Even  as  mine  will  be  soon  :  and  yet  noble  it  seems  to  me, 

dying, 

Giving  my  life  for  a  people,  to  save  to  the  arms  of  their  lovers 
Maidens  and  youths  for  a  while :  thee,  fairest  of  all,  shall  I 

slay  thee  ? 
Add  not  thy  bones  to  the  many,  thus  angering  idly  the  dread 

ones  ! 

Either  the  monster  will  crush,  or  the  sea-queen's  self  over- 
whelm thee, 
Vengeful,  in  tempest  and  foam,  and  the  thundering  walls  of 

the  surges. 
Why  wilt  thou  follow  me  down  ?  can  we  love  in  the  black 

blank  darkness  ? 
Love  in  the  realms  of  the  dead,  in  the  land  where  all  is 

forgotten  ? 


28  .-/.V/Vv1  ( M 


\\h\  wilt  thou  follow  me  clown  ?    is  it  joy,  on  the  desolate 

oozes, 
Meagre  to  flit,  gray  ghosts  in  the  depths  of   the   gray  salt 

water  ? 
Beautiful !  why  wilt  thou  die,  and  defraud  fair  girls  of  thy 

manhood  ? 
Surely  one  waits   for  thee   longing,  afar  in  the  isles  of  the 

ocean. 

Go  thy  way;  I  mine  ;  for  the  gods  grudge  pleasure  to  mortals." 
Sobbing  she  ended  her  moan,  as  her  neck,  like  a  storm- 
bent  lily, 
Drooped  with  the  weight  of  her  woe,  and  her  limbs  sank, 

weary  with  watching, 
Soft  on  the  hard-ledged  rock  :  but  the  boy,  with  his  eye  on  the 

monster, 
Clasped  her,  and  stood,  like  a  god ;  and  his  lips  curved  proud 

as  he  answered  — 
"  Great  are  the  pitiless  sea-gods  :  but  greater  the  Lords 

of  Olympus ; 

Greater  the  yEgis-wielder,  and  greater  is  she  who  attends  him. 
Clear-eyed   Justice   her   name   is,    the   counsellor,    loved  of 

Athene ; 
Helper  of  heroes,  who  dare,  in  the  god-given  might  of  their 

manhood, 
Greatly  to   do   and   to   suffer,  and  far  in  the  fens  and  the 

forests 
Smite   the   devourers  of  men,  Heaven-hated,  brood  of   the 

giants, 

Twyformed,  strange,  without  like,  who  obey  not  the  golden- 
haired  Rulers. 
-,    Vainly  rebelling  they  rage,  till  they  die  by  the  swords  of  the 

heroes, 

Even  as  this  must  die ;  for  I  burn  with  the  wrath  of  my  father, 
Wandering,  led  by  Athene ;  and  dare  whatsoever  betides  me. 


ANDROMEDA.  29 


Led  by  Athene  I  won  from  the  gray-haired  terrible  sisters 
Secrets  hidden  from  men,  when  I  found  them  asleep  on  the 

sand-hills, 
Keeping  their  eye  and  their  tooth,  till  they  showed  me  the 

perilous  pathway 

Over  the  waterless  ocean,  the  valley  that  led  to  the  Gorgon. 
Her  too  I  slew  in  my  craft,  Medusa,  the  beautiful  horror; 
Taught  by  Athene  I  slew  her,  and  saw  not  herself,  but  her 

image, 
Watching  the  mirror  of  brass,  in  the  shield  which  a  goddess 

had  lent  me. 
Cleaving  her  brass-scaled  throat,  as  she  lay  with  her  adders 

around  her, 
Fearless  I  bore  off  her  head,  in   the  folds  of  the  mystical 

goat-skin 

Hide  of  Amaltheie,  fair  nurse  of  the  ^Egis-wielder. 
Hither  I  bear  it,  a  gift  to  the  gods,   and  a  death  to  my 

foeman, 
Freezing  the  seer  to  stone  ;    to   hide  thine  eyes  from   the 

horror. 
Kiss  me  but  once,  and  I  go." 

Then  lifting  her  neck,  like  a  sea-bird 
Peering  up  over   the  wave,  from   the   foam-white   swells   of 

her  bosom, 

Blushing  she  kissed  him  :  afar,  on  the  topmost  Idalian  summit 
Laughed   in   the   joy   of   her    heart,    far-seeing,   the    queen 

Aphrodite. 
Loosing  his  arms  from  her  waist  he  flew  upward,  awaiting 

the  sea-beast. 
Onward  it  came  from  the  southward,  as  bulky  and  black  as 

a  galley, 

Lazily  coasting  along,  as  the  fish  fled  leaping  before  it; 
Lazily  breasting  the   ripple,  and  watching   by  sandbar   and 

headland, 


30  ANDROMEDA. 


Listening  for  laughter  of  maidens  at  bleaching,  or  song  of  the 

fisher, 
Children  at  play  on  the  pebbles,  or  cattle  that  pawed  on  the 

sand-hills. 

Rolling  and  dripping  it  came,  where  bedded  in  glistening  purple 
Cold  on  the  cold  sea-weeds  lay  the  long  white  sides  of  the 

maiden,  % 

Trembling,  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her  tresses  afloat  on 

the  water. 

As  when  an  osprey  aloft,  dark-eyebrowed,  royally  crested, 
Flags  on  by  creek  and  by  cove,  and  in  scorn  of  the  anger  of 

Nereus 
Ranges,  the  king  of  the  shore;   if  he  see  on   a   glittering 

shallow, 
Chasing  the  bass   and  the  mullet,   the    fin   of    a  wallowing 

dolphin, 
Halting,  he  wheels  round  slowly,  in  doubt  at  the  weight  of  his 

quarry, 
Whether  to  clutch  it  alive,  or  to  fall  on   the  wretch   like  a 

plummet, 
Stunning  with   terrible   talon   the   life    of   the    brain    in    the 

hindhead  : 
Then  rushes  up  with  a  scream,  and  stooping  the  wrath  of  his 

eyebrows 
Falls  from  the  sky,  like  a  star,  while  the  wind  rattles  hoarse 

in  his  pinions. 
Over  him  closes  the  foam  for  a  moment ;  and  then  from  the 

sand-bed 
Rolls  up  the  great  fish,  dead,  and  his  side  gleams  white  in 

the  sunshine. 
Thus   fell   the   boy   on  the  beast,  unveiling  the  face  of  the 

Gorgon  ; 
Thus  fell  the  boy  on  the  beast ;    thus  rolled  up  the  beast  in 

his  horror, 


ANDROMEDA.  3 1 


Once,  as  the  dead  eyes  glared  into  his ;  then  his  sides,  death- 
sharpened, 
Stiffened  and  stood,  brown  rock,  in  the  wash  of  the  wandering 

water. 
Beautiful,  eager,  triumphant,  he  leapt  back  again  to  his 

treasure ; 
Leapt  back  again,  full  blest,  toward  arms   spread  wide  to 

receive  him. 
Brimful  of  honor  he  clasped  her,  and  brimful  of  love  she 

caressed  him, 

Answering  lip  with  lip  ;  while  above  them  the  queen  Aphrodite 
Poured  on  their  foreheads  and  limbs,  unseen,  ambrosial  odors, 
Givers  of  longing,  and  rapture,  and  chaste  content  in 

espousals. 
Happy  whom  ere  they  be  wedded  anoints  she,  the  Queen 

^Aphrodite ! 
Laughing  she  called  to  her  sister,  the  chaste  Tritonid 

Athene 

"  Seest  thou  yonder  thy  pupil,  thou  maid  of  the  ^Egis-wielder  ? 
How  he  has  turned  himself  wholly  to  love,  and  caresses  a 

damsel, 

Dreaming  no  longer  of  honor,  or  danger,  or  Pallas  Athene  ? 
Sweeter,  it  seems,  to  the  young  my  gifts  are  ;  so  yield  we  the 

stripling ; 
Yield  him  me  now,  lest  he  die  in  his  prime,  like   hapless 

Adonis." 
Smiling    she    answered    in    turn,    that   chaste    Tritonid 

Athene  : 
"  Dear  unto   me,  no  less   than   to   thee,  is  the  wedlock   of 

heroes ; 
Dear,  who  can  worthily  win  him  a  wife  not  unworthy ;  and 

noble, 
Pure  with  the  pure  to  beget  brave  children,  the  like  of  their 

father. 


32  ANDROMEDA. 


Happy,  who  thus  stands  linked  to  the  heroes  who  were,  and 

who  shall  be ; 

Girdled  with  holiest  awe,  not  sparing  of  self ;   for  his  mother 
Watches  his  steps  with  the  eyes  of  the  gods ;  and  his  wife  and 

his  children 
Move  him  to  plan  and  to  do  in  the  farm  and  the  camp  and 

the  council. 
Thence  comes  weal  to  a  nation  :  but  woe  upon  woe,  when  the 

people 
Mingle  in  love  at  their  will,  like  the  brutes,  not  heeding  the 

future." 
Then  from  her  gold-strung  loom,  where  she  wrought  in 

her  chamber  of  cedar, 
Awful   and  fair  she   arose ;    and   she  went  by  the  glens   of 

Olympus  ; 
Went  by  the  isles  of  the  sea,  and  the  wind  never  ruffled  her 

mantle ; 
Went  by  the  water  of  Crete,  and  the  black-beaked  fleets  of 

the  Phcenics ; 
Came  to   the   sea-girt  rock  which  is  washed  by  the    surges 

forever, 
Bearing  the  wealth  of  the  gods,  for  a  gift  to  the  bride  of  a 

hero. 
There  she  met  Andromeden  and  Persea,  shaped  like  Immor^ 

tals; 
Solemn  and  sweet  was  her  smile,  while  their  hearts  beat  loud 

at  her  coming; 
Solemn  and  sweet  was  her  smile,  as  she  spoke  to  the  pair  in 

her  wisdom. 
"  Three  things  hold  we,  the  Rulers,  who  sit  by  the  founts 

of  Olympus, 
Wisdom,  and  prowess,  and  beauty;  and  freely  we  pour  them 

on  mortals ; 
Pleased  at  our  image  in  man,  as  a  father  at  his  in  his  children. 


ANDROMEDA.  33 


One    thing    only   we    grudge   to   mankind:    when    a   hero, 

unthankful, 
Boasts  of  our  gifts  as  his  own,  stiffnecked,  and  dishonors  the 

givers, 

Turning  our  weapons  against  us.    Him  Ate  follows  avenging; 
Slowly  she  tracks  him  and  sure,  as  a  lyme-hound ;  sudden  she 

grips  him, 
Crushing  him,  blind  in  his  pride,  for  a  sign  and  a  terror  to 

folly. 

This  we  avenge,  as  is  fit ;  in  all  else  never  weary  of  giving. 
Come,  then,  damsel,  and  know  if  the  gods  grudge  pleasure  to 

mortals." 
Loving  and  gentle   she   spoke :   but  the  maid  stood  in 

awe,  as  the  goddess 
Plaited  with  soft  swift  finger  her  tresses,  and  decked  her  in 

jewels, 
Armlet  and  anklet  and  earbell ;  and  over  her  shoulders  a 

necklace, 
Heavy,  enamelled,  the  flower  of  the  gold  and  the  brass  of  the 

mountain. 
Trembling  with  joy  she  gazed,  so  well  Haephaistos  had  made 

it, 
Deep  in  the  forges  of  ^Stna,  while  Charis  his  lady  beside 

him, 
Mingled  her  grace  in  his  craft,  as  he  wrought  for  his  sister 

Athene. 

Then  on  the  brows  of  the  maiden  a  veil  bound  Pallas  Athene*; 
Ample  it  fell  to  her  feet,  deep-fringed,  a  wonder  of  weaving. 
Ages   and   ages   agone   it   was  wrought   on   the   heights  of 

Olympus, 
Wrought  in  the  gold-strung  loom,  by  the  finger  of  cunning 

Athene. 
In  it  she  wove  all  creatures  that  teem  in  the  womb  of  the 

ocean ; 


34  ANDROMEDA. 


Nereid,  siren,  and  triton,  and  dolphin,  and  arrowy  fishes 
Glittering  round,  many-hued,  on  the  flame-red  folds  of  the 

mantle. 
In  it  she  wove,  too,  a  town  where  gray-haired  kings  sat  in 

judgment ; 
Sceptre  in  hand  in  the  market  they  sat,  doing  right  by  the 

people, 
Wise :   while   above   watched   Justice,    and   near,   far-seeing 

Apollo. 
Round  it  she  wove  for  a  fringe  all  herbs  of  the  earth  and  the 

water, 

Violet,  asphodel,  ivy,  and  vine-leaves,  roses  and  lilies, 
Coral  and  sea-fan  and  tangle,  the  blooms  and  the  palms  of 

the  ocean : 
Now  from  Olympus  she  bore  it,  a  dower  to  the  bride  of  a 

hero. 
Over  the  limbs  of  the  damsel  she  wrapt  it:  the  maid  still 

trembled, 
Shading  her  face  with  her  hands  ;  for  the  eyes  of  the  goddess 

were  awful. 
Then,  as  a  pine  upon  Ida  when  southwest  winds  blow 

landward, 
Stately  she  bent  to  the  damsel,  and  breathed  on  her :  under 

her  breathing 
Taller  and  fairer  she  grew;  and  the  goddess  spoke  in  her 

wisdom. 
"  Courage  I  give  thee ;    the   heart  of  a  queen,  and  the 

mind  of  Immortals ; 
Godlike  to  talk  with  the  gods,  and  to  look  on  their  eyes 

unshrinking; 
Fearing  the  sun  and  the  stars  no  more,  and  the  blue  salt 

water ; 
Fearing    us   only,    the   lords    of    Olympus,    friends    of    the 

heroes ; 


ANDROMEDA.  35 


Chastely  and  wisely  to  govern  thyself  and  thy  house  and  thy 

people, 

Bearing  a  god-like  race  to  thy  spouse,  till  dying  I  set  thee 
High  for  a  star  in  the  heavens,  a  sign  and  a  hope  to  the 

seamen, 
Spreading  thy  long  white  arms  all  night  in  the  heights  of  the 

aether, 
Hard  by  thy  sire  and  the  hero  thy  spouse,  while  near  thee 

thy  mother 

Sits  in  her  ivory  chair,  as  she  plaits  ambrosial  tresses. 
All  night  long  thou  wilt  shine;  all  day  thou  wilt  feast  on 

Olympus, 

Happy,  the  guest   of  the   gods,  by  thy  husband,  the   god- 
begotten." 
Blissful,  they  turn  them  to  go :  but  the  fair-tressed  Pallas 

Athene 

Rose,  like  a  pillar  of  tall  white  cloud,  toward  silver  Olympus ; 
Far  above  ocean  and  shore,  and  the  peaks  of  the  isles  and 

the  mainland; 

Where  no  frost  nor  storm  is,  in  clear  blue  windless  abysses, 
High  in  the  home  of  the  summer,  the   seats  of  the  happy 

Immortals, 
Shrouded  in  keen  deep  blaze,  unapproachable ;  there   ever 

youthful 

Hebe,  Harmonic,  and  the  daughter  of  Jove,  Aphrodite, 
Whirled   in   the  white-linked   dance  with  the  gold-crowned 

Hours  and  the  Graces, 
Hand  within  hand,  while  clear  piped  Phcebe,  queen  of  the 

woodlands. 

All  day  long  they  rejoiced  :  but  Athene  still  in  her  chamber 
Bent  herself  over  her  loom,  as  the  stars  rang  loud  to  her 

singing, 
Chanting  of   order  and   right,  and   of   foresight,  warden   of 

nations ; 


36  HYPOTHESES  HYPOCHONDRIACS. 

Chanting  of  labor  and  craft,  and  of  wealth  in  the  port  and 

the  garner; 
Chanting  of  valor  and  fame,  and  the  man  who  can  fall  with  the 

foremost, 
Fighting  for  children  and  wife,  and  the  field  which  his  father 

bequeathed  him. 
Sweetly  and  solemnly  sang  she,  and  planned  new  lessons  for 

mortals: 
Happy,  who  hearing  obey  her,  the  wise  unsullied  Athene*. 

EVERSLEY,    1852. 


HYPOTHESES   HYPOCHONDRIAC^.1 

AND  should  she  die,  her  grave  should  be 

Upon  the  bare  top  of  a  sunny  hill, 

Among  the  moorlands  of  her  own  fair  land, 

Amid  a  ring  of  old  and  moss-grown  stones 

In  gorse  and  heather  all  embosomed, 

There  should  be  no  tall  stone,  no  marble  tomb 

Above  her  gentle  corse  ;  —  the  ponderous  pile 

Would  press  too  rudely  on  those  fairy  limbs. 

The  turf  should  lightly  lie,  that  marked  her  home. 

A  sacred  spot  it  would  be  —  every  bird 

That  came  to  watch  her  lone  grave  should  be  holy. 

The  deer  should  browse  around  her  undisturbed ; 

The  whin  bird  by,  her  lonely  nest  should  build 

All  fearless ;  for  in  life  she  loved  to  see 

Happiness  in  all  things  — 

And  we  would  come  on  summer  days 

1  This  and  the  following  poem  were  written  at  school  in  early  boyhood. 


HYPOTHESES  HYPOCHONDRIACS.  -  37 

When  all  around  was  bright,  and  set  us  down 
And  think  of  all  that  lay  beneath  that  turf 
On  which  the  heedless  moor-bird  sits,  and  whistles 
His  long,  shrill,  painful  song,  as  though  he  plained 
For  her  that  loved  him  and  his  pleasant  hills  ; 
And  we  would  dream  again  of  bygone  days 
Until  our  eyes  should  swell  with  natural  tears 
For  brilliant  hopes  —  all  faded  into  air  ! 
As,  on  the  sands  of  Irak,  near  approach 
Destroys  the  traveller's  vision  of  still  lakes, 
And  goodly  streams  reed-clad,  and  meadows  green ; 
And  leaves  behind  the  drear  reality 
Of  shadeless,  same,  yet  everchanging  sand  ! 
And  when  the  sullen  clouds  rose  thick  on  high 
Mountains  on  mountains  rolling —  and  dark  mist 
Wrapped  itself  round  the  hill-tops  like  a  shroud, 
When  on  her  grave  swept  by  the  moaning  wind 
Bending  the  heather-bells  —  then  would  I  come 
And  watch  by  her,  in  silent  loneliness, 
And  smile  upon  the  storm  —  as  knowing  well 
The  lightning's  flash  would  surely  turn  aside, 
Nor  mar  the  lowly  mound,  where  peaceful  sleeps 
All  that  gave  life  and  love  to  one  fond  heart ! 
I  talk  of  things  that  are  not ;  and  if  prayers 
By  night  and  day  avail  from  my  weak  lips, 
Then  should  they  never  be !  till  I  was  gone, 
Before  the  friends  I  loved,  to  my  long  home. 
O  pardon  me,  if  e'er  I  say  too  much ;  my  mind 
Too  often  strangely  turns  to  ribald  mirth, 
As  though  I  had  no  doubt  nor  hope  beyond  — 
Or  brooding  melancholy  cloys  my  soul 
With  thoughts  of  days  misspent,  of  wasted  time 
And  bitter  feelings  swallowed  up  in  jests. 
Then  strange  and  fearful  thoughts  flit  o'er  my  brain 


38  HYPOTHESES  HYPOCHONDRIACS. 

By  indistinctness  made  more  terrible, 

And  incubi  mock  at  me  with  fierce  eyes 

Upon  my  couch  :  and  visions,  crude  and  dire, 

Of  planets,  suns,  millions  of  miles,  infinity, 

Space,  time,  thought,  being,  blank  nonentity, 

Things  incorporeal,  fancies  of  the  brain, 

Seen,  heard,  as  though  they  were  material, 

All  mixed  in  sickening  mazes,  trouble  me, 

And  lead  my  soul  away  from  earth  and  heaven 

Until  I  doubt  whether  I  be  or  n©t ! 

And  then  I  see  all  frightful  shapes  —  lank  ghosts, 

Hydras,  chimeras,  krakens,  wastes  of  sand, 

Herbless  and  void  of  living  voice  — tall  mountains 

Cleaving  the  skies  with  height  immeasurable, 

On  which  perchance  I  climb  for  infinite  years ;  broad  seas, 

Studded  with  islands  numberless,  that  stretch 

Beyond  the  regions  of  the  sun,  and  fade 

Away  in  distance  vast,  or  dreary  clouds, 

Cold,  dark,  and  watery,  where  wander  I  forever ! 

Or  space  of  ether,  where  I  hang  for  aye  ! 

A  speck,  an  atom  —  inconsumable  — 

Immortal,  hopeless,  voiceless,  powerless  ! 

And  oft  I  fancy,  I  am  weak  and  old 

And  all  who  loved  me,  one  by  one,  are  dead, 

And  I  am  left  alone  —  and  cannot  die 

Surely  there  is  no  rest  on  earth  for  souls 

Whose  dreams  are  like  a  madman's !     I  am  young 

And  much  is  yet  before  me  —  after  years 

May  bring  peace  with  them  to  my  weary  heart ! 

HELSTON,  1835. 


TREIHLL    WELL.  39 


TREHILL   WELL. 

THERE  stood  a  low  and  ivied  roof, 

As  gazing  rustics  tell, 
In  times  of  chivalry  and  song 

'Yclept  the  holy  well. 

Above  the  ivies'  branchlets  gray 

In  glistening  clusters  shone; 
While  round  the  base  the  grass-blades  bright 

And  spiry  fox-glove  sprung. 

The  brambles  clung  in  graceful  bands, 

Chequering  the  old  gray  stone 
With  shining  leaflets,  whose  bright  face 

In  autumn's  tinting  shone. 

Around  the  fountain's  eastern  base 

A  babbling  brooklet  sped, 
With  sleepy  murmur  purling  soft 

Adown  its  gravelly  bed. 

Within  the  cell  the  filmy  ferns 

To  woo  the  clear  wave  bent 
And  cushioned  mosses  to  the  stone 

Their  quaint  embroidery  lent. 

The  fountain's  face  lay  still  as  glass  — 

Save  where  the  streamlet  free 
Across  the  basin's  gnarled  lip 

Flowed  ever  silently. 


40  TKEHILL    WELL. 


Above  the  well  a  little  nook 
Once  held,  as  rustics  tell, 

All  garland-decked,  an  image  of 
The  Lady  of  the  Well. 

They  tell  of  tales  of  mystery, 
Of  darkling  deeds  of  woe ; 

But  no  !  such  doings  might  not  brook 
The  holy  streamlet's  flow. 

Oh  tell  me  not  of  bitter  thoughts, 

Of  melancholy  dreams, 
By  that  fair  fount  whose  sunny  wall 

Basks  in  the  western  beams. 

When  last  I  saw  that  little  stream, 
A  form  of  light  there  stood, 

That  seemed  like  a  precious  gem, 
Beneath  that  archway  rude  : 

And  as  I  gazed  with  love  and  awe 
Upon  that  sylph-like  thing, 

Methought  that  airy  form  must  be 
The  fairy  of  the  spring. 

HELSTON,  1835. 


IN   AN   ILLUMINATED   MISSAL.1 

I  WOULD  have  loved  :  there  are  no  mates  in  heaven ; 
I  would  be  great :  there  is  no  pride  in  heaven  ; 
I  would  have  sung,  as  doth  the  nightingale 
The  summer's  night  beneath  the  moone  pale, 
But  Saintes  hymnes  alone  in  heaven  prevail, 
l  Lines  supposed  to  be  found  written  in  an  illuminated  missal. 


THE    WEIRD  LADY.  4! 

My  love,  my  song,  my  skill,  my  high  intent, 
Have  I  within  this  seely  book  y-pent : 
And  all  that  beauty  which  from  every  part 
I  treasured  still  alway  within  mine  heart, 
Whether  of  form  or  face  angelical, 
Or  herb  or  flower,  or  lofty  cathedral, 
Upon  these  sheets  below  doth  lie  y-spred, 
In  quaint  devices  deftly  blazoned. 
Lord,  in  this  tome  to  thee  I  sanctify 
The  sinful  fruits  of  worldly  fantasy. 
1839. 


THE  WEIRD   LADY. 

THE  swevens  came  up  round  Harold  the  Earl, 

Like  motes  in  the  sunnes  beam ; 
And  over  him  stood  the  Weird  Lady, 
In  her  charmed  castle  over  the  sea, 

Sang  "  Lie  thou  still  and  dream." 

"Thy  steed  is  dead  in  his  stall,  Earl  Harold, 

Since  thou  hast  been  with  me  ; 
The  rust  has  eaten  thy  harness  bright, 
And  the  rats  have  eaten  thy  greyhound  light, 

That  was  so  fair  and  free." 

Mary  Mother  she  stooped  from  heaven  ; 
She  wakened  Earl  Harold  out  of  his  sweven, 

To  don  his  harness  on ; 
And  over  the  land  and  over  the  sea 
He  wended  abroad  to  his  own  countrie, 

A  weary  way  to  gon. 


42  THE    WEIRD  LADY. 

O  but  his  beard  was  white  and  eld, 

O  but  his  hair  was  gray ; 
He  stumbled  on  by  stock  and  stone, 
And  as  he  journeyed  he  made  his  moan 

Along  that  weary  way. 

Earl  Harold  came  to  his  castle  wall ; 

The  gate  was  burnt  with  fire  ; 
Roof  and  rafter  were  fallen  down, 
The  folk  were  strangers  all  in  the  town, 

And  strangers  all  in  the  shire. 

Earl  Harold  came  to  a  house  of  nuns, 
And  he  heard  the  dead-bell  toll; 

He  saw  the  sexton  stand  by  a  grave ; 

"  Now  Christ  have  mercy,  who  did  us  save, 
Upon  yon  fair  nun's  soul." 

The  nuns  they  came  from  the  convent  gate 

By  one,  by  two,  by  three ; 
They  sang  for  the  soul  of  a  lady  bright 
Who  died  for  the  love  of  a  traitor  knight : 

It  was  his  own  lady. 

He  stayed  the  corpse  beside  the  grave ; 

"  A  sign,  a  sign  ! "  quod  he. 
"  Mary  Mother  who  rulest  heaven, 
Send  me  a  sign  if  I  be  forgiven 

By  the  woman  who  so  loved  me." 

A  white  dove  out  of  the  coffin  flew ; 

Earl  Harold's  mouth  it  kist ; 
He  fell  on  his  face,  wherever  he  stood ; 
And  the  white  dove  carried  his  soul  to  God 

Or  ever  the  bearers  wist. 
DURHAM,  1840. 


PALINODIA.  43 


PALINODIA. 

YE  mountains,  on  whose  torrent-furrowed  slopes, 
And  bare  and  silent  brows  uplift  to  heaven, 
I  envied  oft  the  soul  which  fills  your  wastes 
Of  pure  and  stern  sublime,  and  still  expanse 
Unbroken  by  the  petty  incidents 
Of  noisy  life  :     Oh  hear  me  once  again  ! 

Winds,  upon  whose  racked  eddies,  far  aloft, 

Above  the  murmur  of  the  uneasy  world, 

My  thoughts  in  exultation  held  their  way  : 

Whose  tremulous  whispers  through  the  rustling  glade 

Were  once  to  me  unearthly  tones  of  love, 

Joy  without  object,  wordless  music,  stealing 

Through  all  my  soul,  until  my  pulse  beat  fast 

With  aimless  hope,  and  unexpressed  desire  — 

Thou  sea,  who  wast  to  me  a  prophet  deep 

Through  all  thy  restless  waves,  and  wasting  shores, 

Of  silent  labor,  and  eternal  change ; 

First  teacher  of  the  dense  immensity 

Of  ever-stirring  life,  in  thy  strange  forms 

Of  fish,  and  shell,  and  worm,  and  oozy  weed : 

To  me  alike  thy  frenzy  and  thy  sleep 

Have  been  a  deep  and  breathless  joy  :   Oh  hear ! 

Mountains,  and  winds,  and  waves,  take  back  your  child ! 
Upon  thy  balmy  bosom,  Mother  Nature, 
Where  my  young  spirit  dreamt  its  years  away, 
Give  me  once  more  to  nestle  :  I  have  strayed 
Far  through  another  world,  which  is  not  thine. 


44  A   HOPE. 


Through  sunless  cities,  and  the  weary  haunts 
Of  smoke-grimed  labor,  and  foul  revelry 
My  flagging  wing  has  swept.     A  mateless  bird's 
My  pilgrimage  has  been  ;  through  sin,  and  doubt, 
And  darkness,  seeking  love.     Oh  hear  me,  Nature ! 
Receive  me  once  again  :  but  not  alone ; 
No  more  alone,  Great  Mother !     I  have  brought 
One  who  has  wandered,  yet  not  sinned,  like  me. 
Upon  thy  lap,  twin  children,  let  us  lie ; 
And  in  the  light  of  thine  immortal  eyes 
Let  our  souls  mingle,  till  The  Father  calls 
To  some  eternal  home  the  charge  He  gives  thee. 
CAMBRIDGE,  1841. 


A   HOPE. 

TWIN  stars,  aloft  in  ether  clear, 
Around  each  other  roll  alway, 

Within  one  common  atmosphere 
Of  their  own  mutual  light  and  day. 

And  myriad  happy  eyes  are  bent 
Upon  their  changeless  love  alway 

As,  strengthened  by  their  one  intent, 
They  pour  the  flood  of  life  and  day. 

So  we  through  this  world's  waning  night 

May,  hand  in  hand,  pursue  our  way ; 
Shed  round  us  order,  love,  and  light, 

And  shine  unto  the  perfect  day. 
1842. 


CHILD  BALLAD.  45 


THE   POETRY   OF  A   ROOT  CROP. 

UNDERNEATH  their  eider-robe 
Russet  swede  and  golden  globe, 
Feathered  carrot,  burrowing  deep, 
Steadfast  wait  in  charmed  sleep  ; 
Treasure-houses  wherein  lie, 
Locked  by  angels'  alchemy, 
Milk  and  hair,  and  blood,  and  bone, 
Children  of  the  barren  stone ; 
Children  of  the  flaming  Air, 
With  his  blue  eye  keen  and  bare, 
Spirit-peopled  smiling  down 
On  frozen  field  and  toiling  town  — 
Toiling  town  that  will  not  heed 
God  His  voice  for  rage  and  greed  ; 
Frozen  fields  that  surpliced  lie, 
Gazing  patient  at  the  sky  ; 
Like  some  marble  carven  nun, 
With  folded  hands  when  work  is  done, 
Who  mute  upon  her  tomb  doth  pray, 
Till  the  resurrection  day. 

EVERSLEY,  1845. 


CHILD   BALLAD. 

JESUS,  He  loves  one  and  all, 
Jesus,  he  loves  children  small, 
Their  souls  are  waiting  round  His  feet 
On  high,  before  His  mercy-seat. 


46  AIRLY  BEACON. 


While  He  wandered  here  below 
Children  small  to  Him  did  go, 
At  His  feet  they  knelt  and  prayed, 
On  their  heads  His  hands  He  laid. 

Came  a  Spirit  on  them  then, 
Better  than  of  mighty  men, 
A  Spirit  faithful,  pure  and  mild, 
A  Spirit  fit  for  king  and  child. 

Oh  !  that  Spirit  give  to  me, 

Jesu  Lord,  where'er  I  be  ! 
1847. 


AIRLY   BEACON. 

AIRLY  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon ; 

Oh  the  pleasant  sight  to  see 
Shires  and  towns  from  Airly  Beacon, 

While  my  love  climbed  up  to  me  ! 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon ; 

Oh  the  happy  hours  we  lay 
Deep  in  fern  on  Airly  Beacon, 

Courting  through  the  summer's  day 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon  ; 

Oh  the  weary  haunt  for  me, 
All  alone  on  Airly  Beacon, 

With  his  baby  on  my  knee  1 
1847. 


SAPPHO.  47 


SAPPHO. 

SHE  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff, 
Above  her  glared  the  noon  ;  beneath,  the  sea. 
Upon  the  white  horizon  Atho's  peak 
Weltered  in  burning  haze ;  all  airs  were  dead ; 
The  cicale  slept  among  the  tamarisk's  hair ; 
The  birds  sat  dumb  and  drooping.     Far  below 
The  lazy  sea-weed  glistened  in  the  sun  ; 
The  lazy  sea-fowl  dried  their  steaming  wings ; 
The  lazy  swell  crept  whispering  up  the  ledge, 
And  sank  again.     Great  Pan  was  laid  to  rest ; 
And  Mother  Earth  watched  by  him  as  he  slept, 
And  hushed  her  myriad  children  for  a  while. 
She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff ; 
And  sighed  for  sleep,  for  sleep  that  would  not  hear, 
But  left  her  tossing  still ;  for  night  and  day 
A  mighty  hunger  yearned  within  her  heart, 
Till  all  her  veins  ran  fever ;  and  her  cheek, 
Her  long  thin  hands,  and  ivory-channelled  feet, 
Were  wasted  with  the  wasting  of  her  soul. 
Then  peevishly  she  flung  her  on  her  face, 
And  hid  her  eyeballs  from  the  blinding  glare, 
And  fingered  at  the  grass,  and  tried  to  cool 
Her  crisp  hot  lips  against  the  crisp  hot  sward  : 
And  then  she  raised  her  head,  and  upward  cast 
Wild  looks  from  homeless  eyes,  whose  liquid  light 
Gleamed  out  between  deep  folds  of  blue-black  hair, 
As  gleam  twin  lakes  between  the  purple  peaks 
Of  deep  Parnassus,  at  the  mournful  moon. 
Beside  her  lay  her  lyre.     She  snatched  the  shell, 
And  waked  wild  music  from  its  silver  strings ; 


48  THE  BAD  SQUIRE. 

Then  tossed  it  sadly  by. — "  Ah,  hush  !  "  she  cries 
"  Dead  offspring  of  the  tortoise  and  the  mine .' 
Why  mock  my  discords  with  thine  harmonies  ? 
Although  a  thrice-Olympian  lot  be  thine, 
Only  to  echo  back  in  every  tone 
The  moods  of  nobler  natures  than  thine  own.'' 

EVERSLEY,  1847.     From  "  Yeast. " 


THE  BAD   SQUIRE. 

THE  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 

Under  the  moonlight  still. 

Leaping  late  and  early, 

Till  under  their  bite  and  their  tread 
The  swedes  and  the  wheat  and  the  barley 

Lay  cankered  and  trampled  and  dead. 

A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  bank, 

Where  under  the  gloomy  fir-woods 
One  spot  in  the  ley  throve  rank. 

She  watched  a  long  tuft  of  clover, 
Where  rabbit  or  hare  never  ran  ; 

For  its  black  sour  haulm  covered  over 
The  blood  of  a  murdered  man. 

She  thought  of  the  dark  plantation, 

And  the  hares,  and  her  husband's  blood, 

And  the  voice  of  her  indignation 
Rose  up  to  the  throne  of  God. 


THE  BAD  SQUIRE.  49 


"I  am  long  past  wailing  and  whining  — 

I  have  wept  too  much  in  my  life : 
I  've  had  twenty  years  of  pining 

As  an  English  laborer's  wife. 

"  A  laborer  in  Christian  Englartd, 

Where  they  cant  of  a  Saviour's  name, 

And  yet  waste  men's  lives  like  the  vermin's 
For  a  few  more  brace  of  game. 

"  There  's  blood  on  your  new  foreign  shrubs,  squire, 
There  's  blood  on  your  pointer's  feet ; 

There  's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
And  there  's  blood  on  the  game  you  eat. 

"  You  have  sold  the  laboring-man,  squire, 

Body  and  soul  to  shame, 
To  pay  for  your  seat  in  the  House,  squire, 

And  to  pay  for  the  feed  of  your  game. 

"You  made  him  a  poacher  yourself,  squire, 
When  you'd  give  neither  work  nor  meat, 

And  your  barley-fed  hares  robbed  the  garden 
At  our  starving  children's  feet ; 

•'When,  packed  in  one  reeking  chamber, 
Man,  maid,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay; 

While  the  rain  pattered  in  on  the  rotting  bride-bed, 
And  the  walls  let  in  the  day. 

"When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever 

On  the  mud  of  the  cold  clay  floor, 
Till  you  parted  us  all  for  three  months,  squire, 

At  the  dreary  workhouse  door. 


50  THE  BAD  SQUIRE. 


"  We  quarrelled  like  brutes,  and  who  wonders  ? 

What  self-respect  could  we  keep, 
Worse  housed  than  your  hacks  and  your  pointers, 

Worse  fed  than  your  hogs  and  your  sheep  ? 

"  Our  daughters  with  base-born  babies 
Have  wandered  away  in  their  shame, 

If  your  misses  had  slept,  squire,  where  they  did, 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 

"  Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  breaking 

With  handfuls  of  coals  and  rice, 
Or  by  dealing  out  flannel  and  sheeting 

A  little  below  cost  price  ? 

"  You  may  tire  of  the  jail  and  the  workhouse, 
And  take  to  allotments  and  schools, 

But  you  Ve  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  paid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 

"  In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day, 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness 

Are  eating  your  race  away ; 

"When  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 
You  have  cast  your  daughter's  bread, 

And,  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots, 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead ; 

"When  your  youngest,  the  mealy-mouthed  rector, 
Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave, 

You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 
Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave." 


SCOTCH  SONG.  51 


She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover, 
And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 

And  at  last,  when  her  passion  was  over, 
Went  wandering  into  the  night. 

But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill. 

EVERSLEY,    1847. 

From  "  Yeast." 


SCOTCH    SONG. 

OH,  forth  she  went  like  a  braw,  braw  bride 

To  meet  her  winsome  groom, 
When  she  was  aware  of  twa  bonny  birds 

Sat  biggin'  in  the  broom. 

The  tane  it  built  with  the  green,  green  moss, 

But  and  the  bents  sae  fine, 
And  the  tither  wi'  a  lock  o'  lady's  hair 

Linked  up  wi'  siller  twine. 

"  O  whaur  gat  ye  the  green,  green  moss, 

O  whaur  the  bents  sae  fine  ? 
And  whaur  gat  ye  the  bonny  broun  hair 

That  ance  was  tress  o'  mine  ?  " 

"  We  gat  the  moss  fra'  the  elditch  aile, 

The  bents  fra'  the  whinny  muir, 
And  a  fause  knight  threw  us  the  bonny  broun  hair, 

To  please  his  braw  new  fere." 


52  THE    YOUNG   KNIGHT. 

"  Gae  pull,  gae  pull  the  simmer  leaves, 
And  strew  them  saft  o'er  me ; 

My  token  's  tint,  my  love  is  fause 
I  '11  lay  me  doon  and  dee." 

1847. 


THE  YOUNG   KNIGHT, 

A    PARABLE. 

A  GAY  young  knight  in  Burley  stood, 

Beside  him  pawed  his  steed  so  good, 

His  hands  he  wrung  as  he  were  wood, 

With  waiting  for  his  love  O  ! 

"  Oh,  will  she  come,  or  will  she  stay, 
Or  will  she  waste  the  weary  day 
With  fools  who  wish  her  far  away, 
And  hate  her  for  her  love  O  ? " 

But  by  there  came  a  mighty  boar, 
His  jowl  and  tushes  red  with  gore, 
And  on  his  curled  snout  he  bore 
A  bracelet  rich  and  rare  O  ! 

The  knight  he  shrieked,  he  ran,  he  flew, 
He  searched  the  wild  wood  through  and  through, 
But  found  nought  save  a  mantle  blue, 
Low  rolled  within  the  brake  O ! 

He  twined  the  wild  brier,  red  and  white, 
Upon  his  head  the  garland  dight, 
The  green  leaves  withered  black  as  night, 
And  burnt  into  his  brain  O ! 


A   NEW  FOREST  BALLAD.  53 

A  fir£  blazed  up  within  his  breast, 
He  mounted  on  an  aimless  quest, 
He  laid  his  virgin  lance  in  rest, 

And  through  the  forest  drove  O  ! 

By  Rhinefield  and  by  Osmondsleigh, 
Through  leat  and  furze  brake  fast  drove  he, 
Until  he  saw  the  homeless  sea, 

That  called  with  all  its  waves  O  ! 

He  laughed  aloud  to  hear  the  roar, 
And  rushed  his  horse  adown  the  shore, 
The  deep  surge  rolled  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  swept  him  down  the  tide  O ! 

NEW  FOREST,  July  12,  1847. 


A   NEW   FOREST   BALLAD. 

OH  she  tripped  over  Ocknell  plain, 

And  down  by  Bradley  Water  ; 
And  the  fairest  maid  on  the  forest  side 

Was  Jane,  the  keeper's  daughter. 

She  went  and  went  through  the  broad  gray  lawns 

As  down  the  red  sun  sank, 
And  chill  as  the  scent  of  a  new-made  grave 

The  mist  smelt  cold  and  dank. 

"  A  token,  a  token  !  "  that  fair  maid  cried, 

"  A  token  that  bodes  me  sorrow ; 
For  they  that  smell  the  grave  by  night 

Will  see  the  corpse  to-morrow. 


54  A   NEW  FOREST  BALLAD. 

"  My  own  true  love  in  Burley  Walk 

Does  hunt  to-night,  I  fear  ; 
And  if  he  meet  my  father  stern, 

His  game  may  cost  him  dear. 

"  Ah,  here 's  a  curse  on  hare  and  grouse, 

A  curse  on  hart  and  hind  ; 
And  a  health  to  the  squire  in  all  England, 

Leaves  never  a  head  behind." 

Her  true  love  shot  a  mighty  hart 

Among  the  standing  rye, 
When  on  him  leapt  that  keeper  old 

From  the  fern  where  he  did  lie. 

The  forest  laws  were  sharp  and  stern, 
The  forest  blood  was  keen ; 

They  lashed  together  for  life  and  death 
Beneath  the  hollies  green. 

The  metal  good  and  the  walnut  wood 

Did  soon  in  flinders  flee  ; 
They  tossed  the  orts  to  south  and  north, 

And  grappled  knee  to  knee. 

They  wrestled  up,  they  wrestled  down, 
They  wrestled  still  and  sore  ; 

Beneath  their  feet  the  myrtle  sweet 
Was  stamped  to  mud  and  gore. 

Ah,  cold  pale  moon,  thou  cruel  pale  moon, 
That  starest  with  never  a  frown 

On  all  the  grim  and  the  ghastly  things 
That  are  wrought  in  thorpe  and  town : 


THE  RED  KING.  55 


And  yet,  cold  pale  moon,  thou  cruel  pale  moon, 
That  night  hadst  never  the  grace 

To  lighten  two  dying  Christian  men 
To  see  one  another's  face. 

They  wrestled  up,  they  wrestled  down, 

They  wrestled  sore  and  still, 
The  fiend  who  blinds  the  eyes  of  men 

That  night  he  had  his  will. 

Like  stags  full  spent,  among  the  bent 

They  dropped  awhile  to  rest ; 
When  the  young  man  drove  his  saying  knife 

Deep  in  the  old  man's  breast. 

The  old  man  drove  his  gunstock  down 

Upon  the  young  man's  head  ; 
And  side  by  side,  by  the  water  brown, 

Those  yeomen  twain  lay  dead. 

They  dug  three  graves  in  Lyndhurst  yard ; 

They  dug  them  side  by  side  ; 
Two  yeomen  lie  there,  and  a  maiden  fair 

A  widow  and  never  a  bride. 

IN  THE  NEW  FOREST,  1847. 


THE   RED   KING. 

THE  King  was  drinking  in  Malwood  Hall, 
There  came  in  a  monk  before  them  all : 
He  thrust  by  squire,  he  thrust  by  knight, 
Stood  over  against  the  dais  aright ; 


56  THE  RED  KING. 


And,  "  The  word  of  the  Lord,  thou  cruel  Red  King, 

The  word  of  the  Lord  to  thee  I  bring. 

A  grimly  sweven  I  dreamt  yestreen  ; 

I  saw  thee  lie  under  the  hollins  green, 

And  through  thine  heart  an  arrow  keen ; 

And  out  of  thy  body  a  smoke  did  rise, 

Which  smirched  the  sunshine  out  of  the  skies : 

So  if  thou  God's  anointed  be 

I  rede  thee  unto  thy  soul  thou  see. 

For  mitre  and  pall  thou  hast  y-sold, 

False  knight  to  Christ,  for  gain  and  gold ; 

And  for  this  thy  forest  were  digged  down  all, 

Steading  and  hamlet  and  churches  tall ; 

And  Christes  poor  were  ousten  forth, 

To  beg  their  bread  from  south  to  north. 

So  tarry  at  home,  and  fast  and  pray, 

Lest  fiends  hunt  thee  in  the  judgment  day." 

The  monk  he  vanished  where  he  stood ; 
King  William  sterte  up  wroth  and  wood  ; 
Quod  he,  "  Fools'  wits  will  jump  together  ; 
The  Hampshire  ale  and  the  thunder  weather 
Have  turned  the  brains  for  us  both,  I  think ; 
And  monks  are  curst  when  they  fall  to  drink. 
A  lothly  sweven  I  dreamt  last  night, 
How  there  hoved  anigh  me  a  griesly  knight, 
Did  smite  me  down  to  the  pit  of  hell ; 
I  shrieked  and  woke,  so  fast  I  fell. 
There  's  Tyrrel  as  sour  as  I,  perdie, 
So  he  of  you  all  shall  hunt  with  me ; 
A  grimly  brace  for  a  hart  to  see." 

The  Red  King  down  from  Malwood  came; 
His  heart  with  wine  was  all  a-flame, 


THE  RED  KING.  $? 


His  eyne  were  shotten,  red  as  blood, 
He  rated  and  swore,  wherever  he  rode. 
They  roused  a  hart,  that  grimly  brace, 
A  hart  of  ten,  a  hart  of  grease, 
Fled  over  against  the  kinges  place. 
The  sun  it  blinded  the  kinge's  ee, 
A  fathom  behind  his  hocks  shot  he  : 

"  Shoot  thou,"  quod  he,  "  in  the  fiende's  name, 
To  lose  such  a  quarry  were  seven  years'  shame." 
And  he  hove  up  his  hand  to  mark  the  game. 
Tyrrel  he  shot  full  light,  God  wot ; 
For  whether  the  saints  they  swerved  the  shot, 
Or  whether  by  treason,  men  knowen  not, 
But  under  the  arm,  in  a  secret  part, 
The  iron  fled  through  the  kinges  heart. 
The  turf  it  squelched  where  the  Red  King  fell ; 
And  the  fiends  they  carried  his  soul  to  hell, 
Quod  "  His  master's  name  it  hath  sped  him  well." 

Tyrrel  he  smited  full  grim  that  day, 

Quod  "  shooting  of  kings  is  no  bairns'  play ;  " 

And  he  smote  in  the  spurs,  and  fled  fast  away. 

As  he  pricked  along  by  Fritham  plain, 

The  green  tufts  flew  behind  like  rain  ; 

The  waters  were  out,  and  over  the  sward : 

He  swam  his  horse  like  a  stalwart  lord  : 

Men  clepen  that  water  Tyrrel's  ford. 

By  Rhinefield  and  by  Osmondsleigh, 

Through  glade  and  furze  brake  fast  drove  he, 

Until  he  heard  the  roaring  sea ; 

Quod  he,  "  Those  gay  waves  they  call  me." 

By  Mary's  grace  a  seely  boat 

On  Christchurch  bar  did  lie  afloat ; 

He  gave  the  shipmen  mark  and  groat, 


58  THE   OUTLAW. 


To  ferry  him  over  to  Normandie, 
And  there  he  fell  to  sanctuarie  ; 
God  .send  his  soul  all  bliss  to  see. 

And  fend  our  princes  every  .one, 
From  foul  mishap  and  trahison ; 
But  kings  that  harrow  Christian  men, 
Shall  England  never  bide  again. 

IN  THE  NEW  FOREST,  1847. 


THE   OUTLAW. 

OH,  I  wadna  be  a  yeoman,  mither,  to  follow  my  father's  trade, 
To  bow  my  back  in  miry  banks,  at  pleugh  and  hoe  and  spade. 
Stinting  wife,  and  bairns,  and  kye,  to  fat  some  courtier  lord,  — 
Let  them  die  o'  rent  wha  like,  mither,  and  I  '11  die  by  sword. 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  clerk,  mither,  to  bide  aye  ben, 
Scrabbling  ower  the  sheets  o'  parchment  with  a  weary  weary 

pen; 
Looking  through  the  lang  stane  windows  at  a  narrow  strip  o' 

sky, 
Like  a  laverock  in  a  withy  cage,  until  I  pine  away  and  die. 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  merchant,  mither,  in  his  lang  furred  gown, 
Trailing  strings  o'  footsore  horses  through  the  noisy,  dusty 

town ;    • 

Louting  low  to  knights  and  ladies,  fumbling  o'er  his  wares, 
Telling  lies,  and  scraping  siller,  heaping  cares  on  cares. 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  soldier,  mither,  to  dice  wi'  ruffian  bands, 
Pining  weary  months  in  castles,  looking  over  wasted  lands. 


THE   OUTLAW.  59 


Smoking  byres,  and   shrieking  women,   and   the   grewsome 

sights  o'  war  — 
There's  blood  on  my  hand  eneugh,  mither  ;  it's  ill  to  make  it 

in  air. 

• 
If  I  had  married  a  wife,  mither,  I  might  ha'  been  douce  and 

still, 
And  sat  at  hame  by  the  ingle  side  to  crack  and  laugh  my 

fill; 
Sat  at  hame  wi'  the  woman  I  looed,  and  wi'  bairnies  at  my 

knee: 
But  death  is  bauld,  and  age  is  cauld,  and  luve  's  no  for  me. 

For  when  first  I   stirred  in  your  side,  mither,  ye  ken  full 

well 
How  you  lay  all  night  up  among  the  deer  out  on  the  open 

fell; 
And   so  it  was  that    I  won  the  heart   to  wander  far  and 

near, 
Caring  neither  for  land  nor  lassie,  but  the  bonnie  dun  deer. 

Yet  I  am  not  a  losel  and  idle,  mither,  nor  a  thief  that  steals ; 

I  do  but  hunt  God's  cattle,  upon  God's  ain  hill ; 

For  no  man  buys  and  sells  the  deer,  and  the  bonnie  fells  are 

free 
To  a  belted  knight  with  hawk  on  hand,  and  a  gangrel  loon 

like  me. 

So  I  'm  aff  and  away  to  the  muirs,  mither,  to  hunt  the  deer, 
Ranging  far  frae  frowning  faces,  and  the  douce  folk  here ; 
Crawling  up  through  burn  and  bracken,  louping  down   the 

screes, 
Looking  out  frae  craig  and  headland,  drinking  up  the  simmer 

breeze. 


60  SING    HEIGH-HO! 


Oh,  the  wafts  o'  heather  honey,  and  the  music  o'  the  brae, 
As  I  watch  the  great  harts  feeding,  nearer,  nearer  a'  the  day. 
Oh,  to  hark  the  eagle  screaming,  sweeping,  ringing  round  the 

sky  — 
That 's  a  bonnier  life  than  stumbling  ower  the  muck  to  colt 

and  kye. 

And  when  I  'm  taen  and  hangit,  mither,  a  brittling  o'  my  deer. 
Ye  '11  no  leave  your  bairn  to  the  corbie  craws,  to  dangle  in  the 

air; 
But   ye  '11  send  up  my  twa  douce  brethren,  and  ye  '11  steal 

me  frae  the  tree, 
And  bury  me  up  on  the  brown  brown  muirs,  where  I  aye 

looed  to  be. 

Ye  '11  bury  me  'twixt  the  brae  and  the  burn,  in  a  glen  far 

away, 
Where  I  may  hear  the  heathcock  craw,  and  the  great  harts 

bray; 
And  gin  my  ghaist  can  walk,  mither,  I  '11  go  glowering  at  the 

sky, 
The  livelong  night  on  the  black  hill  sides  where  the  dun  deer 

lie. 
IN  THE  NEW  FOREST,  1847. 


SING   HEIGH-HO! 

THERE  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree ; 

Sing  heigh-ho  ! 

There  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree, 
And  courts  his  love  as  I  do  thee ; 
Sing  heigh-ho  and  heigh-ho  ! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 


A  MARCH.  6 1 


There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough ; 

Sing  heigh-ho ! 

There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough, 
Its  petals  kiss  —  I  '11  show  you  how  : 

Sing  heigh-ho  and  heigh-ho  ! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

From  sea  to  stream  the  salmon  roam ; 

Sing  heigh-ho ! 

From  sea  to  stream  the  salmon  roam ; 
Each  finds  a  mate,  and  leads  her  home  ; 

Sing  heigh-ho,  and  heigh-ho  ! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

The  sun  's  a  bridegroom,  earth  a  bride ; 

Sing  heigh-ho  ! 

They  court  from  morn  till  eventide  : 
The  earth  shall  pass,  but  love  abide. 

Sing  heigh-ho,  and  heigh-ho  ! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

EVERSLEY,   1847. 


A   MARCH. 

DREARY  East  winds  howling  o'er  us  ; 
Clay-lands  knee-deep  spread  before  us  ; 
Mire  and  ice  and  snow  and  sleet ; 
Aching  backs  and  frozen  feet ; 
Knees  which  reel  as  marches  quicken, 
Ranks  which  thin  as  corpses  thicken ; 
While  with  carrion  birds  we  eat, 
Calling  puddle-water  sweet, 


62  THE  NIGHT  BIRD. 

As  we  pledge  the  health  of  our  general,  who  fares  as  rough 

as  we : 
What  can  daunt  us,  what  can  turn  us,  led  to  death  by  such 

as  he? 

EVERSLEY,    1848. 


A   LAMENT. 

THE  merry  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing, 
And  the  hare  was  out  and  feeding  on  the  lea ; 

And  the  merry  merry  bells  below  were  ringing, 
When  my  child's  laugh  rang  through  me. 

Now  the  hare  is  snared  and  dead  beside  the  snow-yard, 
And  the  lark  beside  the  dreary  winter  sea ; 

And  the  baby  in  his  cradle  in  the  churchyard 
Sleeps  sound  till  the  bell  brings  me. 

EVERSLEY,  1848. 


THE   NIGHT   BIRD. 

A    MYTH. 

A  FLOATING,  a  floating 
Across  the  sleeping  sea, 
All  night  I  heard  a  singing  bird 
Upon  the  topmost  tree. 

"  Oh  came  you  off  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Or  off  the  banks  of  Seine  ; 
Or  off  some  tree  in  forests  free, 
Which  fringe  the  western  main  ? " 


THE   DEAD   CHURCH.  63 

"  I  came  not  off  the  old  world 
Nor  yet  from  off  the  new  — 
But  I  am  one  of  the  birds  of  God 
Which  sing  the  whole  night  through. 

"Oh  sing,  and  wake  the  dawning  — 
Oh  whistle  for  the  wind ; 
The  night  is  long,  the  current  strong, 
My  boat  it  lags  behind." 

"  The  current  sweeps  the  old  world, 
The  current  sweeps  the  new  ; 
The  wind  will  blow,  the  dawn  will  glow 
Ere  thou  hast  sailed  them  through." 

EVERSLEY,    1848. 


THE   DEAD   CHURCH. 

WILD  wild  wind,  wilt  thou  never  cease  thy  sighing  ? 

Dark  dark  night,  wilt  thou  never  wear  away  ? 
Cold  cold  church,  in  thy  death  sleep  lying, 

The  Lent  is  past,  thy  Passion  here,  but  not  thine  Easter- 
day. 

Peace,  faint  heart,  though  the  night  be  dark  and  sighing; 

Rest,  fair  corpse,  where  thy  Lord  himself  hath  lain. 
Weep,  dear  Lord,  above  thy  bride  low  lying  ; 

Thy  tears  shall  wake  her  frozen  limbs  to  life  and  health 
again. 

EVERSLEY,  1848. 


64  THE  STARLINGS. 


A   PARABLE   FROM   LIEBIG. 

THE  church  bells  were  ringing,  the  devil  sat  singing 

On  the  stump  of  a  rotting  old  tree ; 
"  Oh  faith  it  grows  cold,  and  the  creeds  they  grow  old, 

And  the  world  is  nigh  ready  for  me." 

The  bells  went  on  ringing,  a  spirit  came  singing, 

And  smiled  as  he  crumbled  the  tree ; 
"  Yon  wood  does  but  perish  new  seedlings  to  cherish, 

And  the  world  is  too  live  yet  for  thee." 

EVERSLEY,    1848. 


THE   STARLINGS. 

EARLY  in  spring  time,  on  raw  and  windy  mornings, 

Beneath  the  freezing  house-eaves  I  heard  the  starlings  sing  — 

"Ah  dreary  March  month,  is  this  then  a  time  for  building 

wearily  ? 
Sad,  sad,  to  think  that  the  year  is  but  begun." 

Late  in  the  autumn,  on  still  and  cloudless  evenings, 
Among  the  golden  reed-beds  I  heard  the  starlings  sing  — 
"  Ah  that  sweet  March  month,  when  we  and  our  mates  were 

courting  merrily ; 
Sad,  sad,  to  think  that  the  year  is  all  but  done." 

EVERSLEY,  1848. 


THE    WATCHMAN.  65 


OLD   AND   NEW. 

A    PARABLE. 

SEE  how  the  autumn  leaves  float  by  decaying, 
Down  the  wild  swirls  of  the  rain-swollen  stream. 
So  fleet  the  works  of  men,  back  to  their  earth  again; 
Ancient  and  holy  things  fade  like  a  dream. 

Nay !  see  the  spring-blossoms  steal  forth  a-maying, 
Clothing  with  tender  hues  orchard  and  glen  ; 
So,  though  old  forms  pass  by,  ne'er  shall  their  spirit  die. 
Look  !  England's  bare  boughs  show  green  leaf  again. 

EVERSLEY,   1848. 


THE  WATCHMAN. 

"  WATCHMAN,  what  of  the  night  ? " 

"  The  stars  are  out  in  the  sky  ? 
And  the  merry  round  moon  will  be  rising  soon, 

For  us  to  go  sailing  by." 

"  Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? 

"  The  tide  flows  in  from  the  sea ; 
There 's  water  to  float  a  little  cockboat 

Will  carry  such  fishers  as  we." 

"  Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? " 

"  The  night  is  a  fruitful  time ; 
When  to  many  a  pair  are  born  children  fair, 

To  be  christened  at  morning  chime." 

1849. 


66  THE  WORLD'S  AGE. 


THE  WORLD'S   AGE. 

WHO  will  say  the  world  is  dying  ? 

Who  will  say  our  prime  is  passed  ? 
Sparks  from  Heaven,  within  us  lying, 

Flash,  and  will  flash  till  the  last. 
Fools  !  who  fancy  Christ  mistaken  ; 

Man  a  tool  to  buy  and  sell ; 
Earth  a  failure,  God-forsaken, 

Anteroom  of  Hell. 

Still  the  race  of  Hero-spirits 

Pass  the  lamp  from  hand  to  hand  ; 
Age  from  age  the  Words  inherits  — 

"  Wife,  and  Child,  and  Fatherland." 
Still  the  youthful  hunter  gathers 

Fiery  joy  from  wold  and  wood 
He  will  dare  as  dared  his  fathers 

Give  him  cause  as  good. 

While  a  slave  bewails  his  fetters  ; 

While  an  orphan  pleads  in  vain  ; 
While  an  infant  lisps  his  letters, 

Heir  of  all  the  age's  gain  ; 
While  the  lip  grows  ripe  for  kissing ; 

While  a  moan  from  man  is  wrung ; 
Know,  by  every  want  and  blessing, 

That  the  world  is  young. 

1849. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE.  6/ 


THE   SANDS   OF   DEE. 

"  O  MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ;  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

EVERSLEV,    1849. 


68  ELEGIACS. 


THE  TIDE   ROCK. 

How  sleeps  yon  rock,  whose  half-day's  bath  is  done. 
With  broad  bright  side  beneath  the  broad  bright  sun, 
Like  sea-nymph  tired,  on  cushioned  mosses  sleeping. 
Yet,  nearer  drawn,  beneath  her  purple  tresses 
From  drooping  brows  we  find  her  slowly  weeping. 
So  many  a  wife  for  cruel  man's  caresses 
Must  inly  pine  and  pine,  yet  outward  bear 
A  gallant  front  to  this  world's  gaudy  glare. 
ILFRACOMBE,  1849. 


ELEGIACS. 

WEARILY  stretches  the  sand  to  the  surge,  and  the  surge  to 

the  cloudland  ; 

Wearily  onward  I  ride,  watching  the  water  alone. 
Not  as  of  old,  like  Homeric  Achilles,  xvdei  yuiMv, 
Joyous  knight-errant  of  God,  thirsting  for  labor  and  strife ; 
No  more  on  magical  steed  borne  free  through  the  regions  of 

ether, 

But,  like  the  hack  which  I  ride,  selling  my  sinew  for  gold. 
Fruit-bearing  autumn  is  gone  ;  let  the  sad  quiet  winter  hang 

o'er  me  — 

What  were  the  spring  to  a  soul  laden  with  sorrow  and  shame  ? 
Blossoms  would  fret  me  with  beauty  ;  my  heart  has  no  time 

to  bepraise  them ; 

Gray  rock,  bough,  surge,  cloud,  waken  no  yearning  within. 
Sing  not,  thou  sky-lark  above !  even  angels  pass  hushed  by 

the  weeper. 


DARTS  IDE.  69 


Scream  on,  ye  sea-fowl !  my  heart  echoes  your  desolate  cry. 
Sweep  the  dry  sand  on,  thou  wild  wind,  to  drift  o'er  the  shell 

and  the  sea-weed  ; 
Sea-weed  and  shell,  like  my  dreams,  swept  down  the  pitiless 

tide. 
Just  is  the  wave  which  uptore  us ;  't  is  Nature's  own  law  which 

condemns  us ; 

Woe  to  the  weak  who,  in  pride,  build  on  the  faith  of  the  sand! 
Joy  to  the  oak  of  the  mountain  :  he  trusts  to  the  might  of  the 

rock-clefts ; 
Deeply  he  mines,  and  in  peace  feeds  on  the  wealth  of  the 

stone. 

a 
MORTE  SANDS,  DEVONSHIRE,  February,  1849. 


DARTSIDE. 

I  CANNOT  tell  what  you  say,  green  leaves, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say  : 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 

And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  rosy  rocks, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say : 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 

And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  brown  streams, 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say : 
But  I  know  that  in  you  too  a  spirit  doth  live, 

And  a  word  doth  speak  this  day. 


70  MY  HUNTING  SONG. 

"  Oh  green  is  the  color  of  faith  and  truth, 
And  rose  the  color  of  love  and  youth, 

And  brown  of  the  fruitful  clay. 

Sweet  Earth  is  faithful,  and  fruitful,  and  young, 

And  her  bridal  day  shall  come  ere  long, 
And  you  shall  know  what  the  rocks  and  the  streams 

And  the  whispering  woodlands  say." 
DREW?S  TEIGNTON,  DARTMOOR,  July  31,  1849. 


MY   HUNTING   SONG. 

. 

FORWARD  !     Hark  forward  's  the  cry ! 
One  more  fence  and  we  're  out  on  the  open, 
So  to  us  at  once,  if  you  want  to  live  near  us  ! 
Hark  to  them,  ride  to  them,  beauties  !  as  on  they  go, 
Leaping  and  sweeping  away  in  the  vale  below  ! 
Cowards  and  bunglers,  whose  heart  or  whose  eye  is  slow, 

Find  themselves  staring  alone. 

So  the  great  cause  flashes  by ; 
Nearer  and  clearer  its  purposes  open, 
While  louder  and  prouder  the  world-echoes  cheer  us : 
Gentlemen  sportsmen,  you  ought  to  live  up  to  us, 
Lead  us,  and  lift  us,  and  hallo  our  game  to  us  — 
We  cannot  call  the  hounds  off,  and  no  shame  to  us  — 

Dont  be  left  staring  alone  ! 

EVERSLEY,    1849. 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD.  *]\ 


ALTON   LOCKE'S   SONG. 

WEEP,  weep,  weep  and  weep, 

For  pauper,  dolt,  and  slave  ! 
Hark  1  from  wasted  moor  and  fen 
Feverous  alley,  Stirling  den, 
Swells  the  wail  of  Saxon  men  — 
Work  !  or  the  grave  ! 

Down,  down,  down  and  down 
With  idler,  knave,  and  tyrant! 

Why  for  sluggards  cark  and  moil  ? 

He  that  will  not  live  by  toil 

Has  no  right  on  English  soil ! 
God's  word  's  our  warrant  1 

Up,  up,  up  and  up ! 

Face  your  game  and  play  it ! 
The  night  is  past,  behold  the  sun  ! 
The  idols  fall,  the  lie  is  done ! 
The  J  udge  is  set,  the  doom  begun  1 

Who  shall  stay  it  ? 
ON  TORRIDGE,  May,  1849. 


THE   DAY   OF  THE  LORD. 

THE  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand : 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky : 
The  nations  sleep  starving  on  heaps  of  gold; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh  ; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  morn  ; 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  born, 

And  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


72  A    CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God  — 

Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth ; 
Come  !    for  the  Earth  is  grown  coward  and  old, 

Come  down,  and  renew  us  her  youth. 
Wisdom,  Self-Sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battle-field,  stoop  from  above, 

To  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  hell  — 

Famine,  and  Plague,  and  War ; 
Idleness,  Bigotry,  Cant,  and  Misrule, 

Gather  and  fall  in  the  snare  ! 
Hireling  and  Mammonite,  Bigot  and  Knave, 
Crawl  to  the  battle-field,  sneak  to  your  grave, 

In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Who  would  sit  down  and  sigh  for  a  lost  age  of  gold, 

While  the  Lord  of  all  ages  is  here  ? 
True  hearts  will  leap  up  at  the  trumpet  of  God, 

And  those  who  can  suffer,  can  dare. 
Each  old  age  of  gold  was  an  iron  age  too, 
And  the  meekest  of  saints  may  find  stern  work  to  do, 

In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

ON  THE  TORRIDGE,  DEVONSHIRE,  September  10,  1849. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

It  chanced  upon  the  merry  merry  Christmas  eve, 

I  went  sighing  past  the  church  across  the  moorland  drear}7 — 

"Oh  !   never  sin  and  want  and  woe  this  earth  will  leave, 
And  the  bells  but  mock  the  wailing  round,  they  sing  so 
cheery. 


THE   OUBIT.  73 


How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  before  Thou  come  again  ? 
Still  in  cellar,  and  in  garret,  and  on  moorland  dreary 
The  orphans  moan,  and  widows  weep,  and  poor  men  toil  in 

vain, 

Till  earth  is  sick  of  hope  deferred,  though  Christmas  bells 
be  cheery." 

Then  arose  a  joyous  clamor  from  the  wild-fowl  on  the  mere, 

Beneath  the  stars,  across  the  snow,  like  clear  bells  ringing, 
And  a  voice  within  cried — "Listen  !  —  Christmas  carols  even 

here ! 
Though  thou  be  dumb,  yet  o'er  their  work  the  stars  and 

snows  are  singing. 

Blind  !  I  live,  I  love,  I  reign  ;  and  all  the  nations  through 
With  the  thunder  of  my  judgments  even  now  are  ringing 
Do  thou  fulfil  thy  work  but  as  yon  wild-fowl  do, 

Thou  wilt  heed  no  less  the  wailing,  yet   hear  through  it 
angels  singing." 

EVERSLEY,    1849. 


THE   OUBIT.1 

It  was  an  hairy  oubit,  sae  proud  he  crept  alang; 

A  feckless  hairy  oubit,  and  merrily  he  sang  — 

"  My  Minnie  bade  me  bide  at  hame  until  I  won  my  wings ; 

I  shew  her  soon  my  soul 's  aboon  the  warks  o'  creeping  things. 

This  feckless  hairy  oubit  cam'  hirpling  by  the  linn, 

A  swirl  o'  wind  cam*  doun  the  glen,  and  blew  that  oubit  in : 

O  when  he  took  the  water,  the  saumon  fry  they  rose, 

And  tigg'd  him  a'  to  pieces  sma',  by  head  and  tail  and  toes. 

1  Found  among  Sandy  Mackaye's  papers,  of  a  hairy  oubit  who  would  not  mind 
his  mother. 


74  TIIF'    THREE  FISHERS. 

Tuk'  warning  then,  young  poets  a',  by  this  poor  oubit's  shame ; 
Though  Pegasus  may  nicher  loud,  keep  Pegasus  at  hame. 
O  haud  your  hands  frae  inkhorns,  though  a'  the  Muses  woo ; 
For  critics  lie,  like  saumon  fry,  to  mak'  their  meals  o'  you. 

EVERSLEY,    1851. 


THE   THREE   FISHERS. 

THREE  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West, 
Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown. 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep ; 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 
EVERSLEY,  June  25,  1851. 


MARGARET  TO  DOLCINO.  75 


SONNET. 

OH,  thou  hadst  been  a  wife  for  Shakspeare's  self ! 

No  head,  save  some  world-genius,  ought  to  rest 

Above  the  treasures  of  that  perfect  breast, 

Or  nightly  draw  fresh  light  from  those  keen  stars 

Through  which  thy  soul  awes  ours  :  yet  thou  art  bound  - 

Oh  waste  of  nature  !  —  to  a  craven  hound  ; 

To  shameless  lust,  and  childish  greed  of  pelf ; 

Athene  to  a  Satyr :  was  that  link 

Forged  by  The  Father's  hand  ?     Man's  reason  bars 

The  bans  which  God  allowed. —  Ay,  so  we  think  : 

Forgetting,  thou  hadst  weaker  been,  full  blest, 

Than  thus  made  strong  by  suffering ;  and  more  great 
In  martyrdom,  than  throned  as  Caesar's  mate. 

EVERSLF.Y,   1851. 


MARGARET   TO    DOLCINO. 

ASK  if  I  love  thee  ?     Oh,  smiles  cannot  tell 
Plainer  what  tears  are  now  showing  too  well. 
Had  I  not  loved  thee,  my  sky  had  been  clear : 
Had  I  not  loved  thee,  I  had  not  been  here, 
Weeping  by  thee. 

Ask  if  I  love  thee  ?     How  else  could  I  borrow 
Pride  from  man's  slander,  and  strength  from  my  sorrow  ? 
Laugh  when  they  sneer  at  the  fanatic's  bride, 
Knowing  no  bliss,  save  to  toil  and  abide 
Weeping  by  thee. 
ANDERNACH  ON  THE  RHINE,  August,  1851. 


76  THE   UGLY  PRLVCESS. 


DOLCINO   TO   MARGARET. 

THE  world  goes  up  and  the  world  goes  down, 
And  the  sunshine  follows  the  rain  ; 

And  yesterday's  sneer  and  yesterday's  frown 
Can  never  come  over  again, 

Sweet  wife : 
No,  never  come  over  again. 

For  woman  is  warm  though  man  be  cold, 
And  the  night  will  hallow  the  day ; 

Till  the  heart  which  at  even  was  weary  and  old 
Can  rise  in  the  morning  gay, 

Sweet  wife ; 
To  its  work  in  the  morning  gay. 

ANDERNACH,  1851. 


THE  UGLY   PRINCESS. 

MY  parents  bow,  and  lead  them  forth, 
For  all  the  crowd  to  see  — 

Ah  well !  the  people  might  not  care 
To  cheer  a  dwarf  like  me. 

They  little  know  how  I  could  love, 
How  I  could  plan  and  toil, 

To  swell  those  drudges'  scanty  gains, 
Their  mites  of  rye  and  oil. 


SONNET.  77 


They  little  know  what  dreams  have  been 
My  playmates,  night  and  day ; 

Of  equal  kindness,  helpful  care, 
A  mother's  perfect  sway. 

Now  earth  to  earth  in  convent  walls, 
To  earth  in  churchyard  sod : 

I  was  not  good  enough  for  man, 

And  so  am  given  to  God. 
BERTRICH  IN  THE  EIFEL,  1851. 


SONNET. 

THE  baby  sings  not  on  its  mother's  breast ; 

Nor  nightingales  who  nestle  side  by  side ; 

Nor  I  by  thine  :  but  let  us  only  part, 

Then  lips  which  should  but  kiss,  and  so  be  still, 

As  having  uttered  all,  must  speak  again  — 

Oh  stunted  thoughts  !     Oh  chill  and  fettered  rhyme ! 

Yet  my  great  bliss,  though  still  entirely  blest, 

Losing  its  proper  home,  can  find  no  rest : 

So,  like  a  child  who  wiles  away  the  time 
With  dance  and  carol  till  the  eventide, 
Watching  its  mother  homeward  through  the  glen  ; 
Or  nightingale,  who,  sitting  far  apart, 
Tells  to  his  listening  mate  within  the  nest 
The  wonder  of  his  star-entranced  heart 
Till  all  the  wakened  woodlands  laugh  and  thrill  — 

Forth  all  my  being  bubbles  into  song ; 

And  rings  aloft,  not  smooth,  yet  clear  and  strong. 
BERTRICH,  1851. 


78  THE   SWAN-NECK. 


THE   SWAN-NECK. 

EVIL  sped  the  battle  play 
On  the  Pope  Calixtus'  day ; 
Mighty  war-smiths,  thanes  and  lords, 
In  Senlac  slept  the  sleep  of  swords. 
Harold  Earl,  shot  over  shield, 
Lay  along  the  autumn  weald ; 
Slaughter  such  was  never  none 
Since  the  Ethelings  England  won. 

Thither  Lady  Githa  came, 
Weeping  sore  for  grief  and  shame  ; 
How  may  she  her  first-born  tell  ? 
Frenchmen  stripped  him  where  he  fell, 
Gashed  and  marred  his  comely  face ; 
Who  can  know  him  in  his  place? 

Up  and  spake  two  brethren  wise, 
"Youngest  hearts  have  keenest  eyes; 
Bird  which  leaves  its  mother's  nest, 
Moults  its  pinions,  moults  its  crest. 
Let  us  call  the  Swan-neck  here, 
She  that  was  his  leman  dear ; 
She  shall  know  him  in  this  stound ; 
Foot  of  wolf,  and  scent  of  hound, 
Eye  of  hawk,  and  wing  of  dove, 
Carry  woman  to  her  love." 

Up  and  spake  the  Swan-neck  high, 
"  Go  !  to  all  your  thanes  let  cry 
How  I  loved  him  best  of  all, 
I  whom  men  his  leman  call ; 
Better  knew  his  body  fair 
Than  the  mother  which  him  bare. 


A    THOUGHT  FROM  THE  RHINE.  79 

When  ye  lived  in  wealth  and  glee 
Then  ye  scorned  to  look  on  me ; 
God  hath  brought  the  proud  ones  low 
After  me  afoot  to  go." 

Rousing  erne  and  sallow  glede, 
Rousing  gray  wolf  off  his  feed, 
Over  franklin,  earl,  and  thane, 
Heaps  of  mother-naked  slain, 
Round  the  red  field  tracing  slow, 
Stooped  that  swan-neck  white  as  snow ; 
Never  blushed  nor  turned  away, 
Till  she  found  him  where  he  lay ; 
Clipt  him  in  her  armes  fair, 
Wrapt  him  in  her  yellow  hair, 
Bore  him  from  the  battle-stead, 
Saw  him  laid  in  pall  of  lead, 
Took  her  to  a  minster  high, 
For  Earl  Harold's  soul  to  cry. 

Thus  fell  Harold,  bracelet-giver; 
Jesu  rest  his  soul  forever ; 
Angles  all  from  thrall  deliver ; 
Miserere  Domine. 

EVERSLEY,   1851. 


A  THOUGHT   FROM   THE   RHINE. 

I  HEARD  an  Eagle  crying  all  alone 

Above  the  vineyards  through  the  summer  night, 

Among  the  skeletons  of  robber  towers  : 

Because  the  ancient  eyrie  of  his  race 

Was  trenched  and  walled  by  busy-handed  men ; 


80  THE  LONGBEARDS'  SAGA. 

And  all  his  forest-chase  and  woodland  wild, 
\Yherefrom  he  fed  his  young  with  hare  and  roe, 
Were  trim  with  grapes  which  swelled  from  hour  to  hour, 
And  tossed  their  golden  tendrils  to  the  sun 
For  joy  at  their  own  riches  :  —  So,  I  thought, 
The  great  devourers  of  the  earth  shall  sit, 
Idle  and  impotent,  they  know  not  why, 
Down-staring  from  their  barren  height  of  state 
On  nations  grown  too  wise  to  slay  and  slave, 
The  puppets  of  the  few ;  while  peaceful  lore 
And  fellow-help  make  glad  the  heart  of  earth, 
With  wonders  which  they  fear  and  hate,  as  he, 
The  Eagle,  hates  the  vineyard  slopes  below. 
ON  THE  RHINE,  1851. 


THE   LONGBEARDS'  SAGA.     A.  D.  400. 

OVER  the  camp-fires 
Drank  I  with  heroes, 
Under  the  Donau  bank, 
Warm  in  the  snow  trench : 
Sagamen  heard  I  there, 
Men  of  the  Longbeards, 
Cunning  and  ancient, 
Honey-sweet-voiced. 
Scaring  the  wolf  cub, 
Scaring  the  horn-owl, 
Shaking  the  snow-wreaths 
Down  from  the  pine-boughs, 
Up  to  the  star  roof 
Rang  out  their  song. 
Singing  how  Winil  men, 
Over  the  ice-floes 


THE  LONGBEARDS'  SAGA.  8 1 

Sledging  from  Scanland 

Came  unto  Scoring ; 

Singing  of  Gambara, 

Freya's  beloved, 

Mother  of  Ayo, 

Mother  of  Ibor. 

Singing  of  Wendel  men, 

Ambri  and  Assi ; 

How  to  the  Winilfolk 

Went  they  with  war-words, — 

41  Few  are  ye,  strangers, 

And  many  are  we  : 

Pay  us  now  toll  and  fee, 

Cloth-yarn,  and  rings,  and  beeves : 

Else  at  the  raven's  meal 

Bide  the  sharp  bill's  doom." 

Clutching  the  dwarfs  work  then, 

Clutching  the  bullock's  shell, 

Girding  gray  iron  on, 

Forth  fared  the  Winils  all, 

Fared  the  Alruna's  sons, 

Ayo  and  Ibor. 

Mad  at  heart  stalked  they : 

Loud  wept  the  women  all, 

Loud  the  A I  run  a  v.ife  ; 

Sore  was  their  need. 

Out  of  the  morning  land, 

Over  the  snow-drifts, 

Beautiful  Freya  came, 

Tripping  to  Scoring. 

White  were  the  moorlands, 

And  frozen  before  her : 

Green  were  the  moorlands, 

And  blooming  behind  her. 


82  THE  LONGBEARDS*  SAGA. 

Out  of  her  gold  locks 

Shaking  the  spring  flowers, 

Out  of  her  garments 

Shaking  the  south  wind, 

Around  in  the  birches 

Awaking  the  throstles, 

And  making  chaste  housewives  all 

Long  for  their  heroes  home, 

Loving  and  love-giving, 

Came  she  to  Scoring. 

Came  unto  Gambara, 

Wisest  of  Valas, — 

"  Vala,  why  weepest  thou  ? 

Far  in  the  wide-blue, 

High  up  in  the  Elfin-home, 

Heard  I  thy  weeping." 

"  Stop  not  my  weeping, 

Till  one  can  fight  seven. 

Sons  have  I,  heroes  tall, 

First  in  the  sword-play  ; 

This  day  at  the  Wendels'  hands 

Eagles  must  tear  them. 

Their  mothers,  thrall-weary, 

Must  grind  for  the  Wendels." 

Wept  the  Alruna  wife  ; 

Kissed  her  fair  Freya  :  — 

"  Far  off  in  the  morning  land, 

High  in  Valhalla, 

A  window  stands  open  ; 

Its  sill  is  the  snow-peaks, 

Its  posts  are  the  water-spouts, 

Storm-rack  its  lintel ; 

Gold  cloud-flakes  above 

Are  piled  for  the  roofing, 


THE  LONGBEARDS'  SAGA.  83 

Far  up  to  the  elfin-home, 

High  in  the  wide-blue. 

Smiles  out  each  morning  thence 

Odin  Allfather; 

From  under  the  cloud-eaves 

Smiles  out  on  the  heroes, 

Smiles  on  chaste  housewives  all, 

Smiles  on  the  brood-mares, 

Smiles  on  the  smiths'  work  : 

And  theirs  is  the  sword-luck, 

With  them  is  the  glory, — 

So  Odin  hath  sworn  it, — 

Who  first  in  the  morning 

Shall  meet  him  and  greet  him." 

Still  the  Alruna  wept :  — 

"Who  then  shall  greet  him? 

Women  alone  are  here  : 

Far  on  the  moorlands 

Behind  the  war-lindens, 

In  vain  for  the  bill's  doom 

Watch  Winil  heroes  all, 

One  against  seven.'' 

Sweetly  the  Queen  laughed  :  — 

"  Hear  thou  my  counsel  now; 

Take  to  thee  cunning, 

Beloved  of  Freya. 

Take  thou  thy  women-folk, 

Maidens  and  wives  : 

Over  your  ankles 

Lace  on  the  white  war-hose  ; 

Over  your  bosoms 

Link  up  the  hard  mail-nets ; 

Over  your  lips 

Plait  long  tresses  with  cunning;  — 


84  THE  LONGBEARDS*  SAGA. 

So  war-beasts  full-bearded 
King  Odin  shall  deem  you, 
When  off  the  gray  sea-beach 
At  sunrise  ye  greet  him." 

Night's  son  was  driving 

His  golden-haired  horses  up ; 

Over  the  eastern  firths 

High  flashed  their  manes. 

Smiled  from  the  cloud-eaves  out 

Allfather  Odin, 

Waiting  the  battle-sport : 

Freya  stood  by  him. 

"  Who  are  these  heroes  tall, — 

Lusty-limbed  Longbeards  ? 

Over  the  swans'  bath 

WThy  cry  they  to  me  ? 

Bones  should  be  crashing  fast, 

Wolves  should  be  full-fed, 

Where  such,  mad-hearted, 

Swing  hands  in  the  sword-play." 

Sweetly  laughed  Freya  :  — 

"  A  name  thou  hast  given  them, 

Shames  neither  thee  nor  them, 

Well  can  they  wear  it. 

Give  them  the  victory, 

First  have  they  greeted  thee ; 

Give  them  the  victory. 

Yokefellow  mine ! 

Maidens  and  wives  are  these,— 

Wives  of  the  Winils ; 

Few  are  their  heroes 

And  far  on  the  war-road. 


SAINT  MAURA.  85 


So  over  the  swans'  bath 
They  cry  unto  thee." 

Royally  laughed  he  then  ; 
Dear  was  that  craft  to  him, 
Odin  Allfather, 
Shaking  the  clouds. 
"  Cunning  are  women  all, 
Bold  and  importunate ! 
Longbeards  their  names  shall  be, 
Ravens  shall  thank  them  : 
Where  women  are  heroes, 
What  must  the  men  be  ? 
Theirs  is  the  victory  ; 
No  need  of  me  ! " 

EVERSLEY,  1852.    From  " 


SAINT   MAURA.    A.  D.  304. 

THANK  God  !     Those  gazers'  eyes  are  gone  at  last 
The  guards  are  crouching  underneath  the  rock ; 
The  lights  are  fading  in  the  town  below. 
Around  the  cottage  which  this  morn  was  ours. 
Kind  sun,  to  set,  and  leave  us  here  alone ; 
Alone  upon  our  crosses  with  our  God ; 
While  all  the  angels  watch  us  from  the  stars. 
Kind  moon,  to  shine  so  clear  and  full  on  him, 
And  bathe  his  limbs  in  glory,  for  a  sign 
Of  what  awaits  him  !     Oh  look  on  him,  Lord  ! 
Look,  and  remember  how  he  saved  thy  lamb ! 

Oh  listen  to  me,  teacher,  husband,  love, 
Never  till  now  loved  utterly !     Oh  say, 


SAINT  MAURA. 


Say  you  forgive  me  ?     No  —  you  must  not  speak  : 

You  said  it  to  me  hours  ago  —  long  hours  ! 

Now  you  must  rest,  and  when  to-morrow  comes 

Speak  to  the  people,  call  them  home  to  God, 

A  deacon  on  the  Cross,  as  in  the  Church ; 

And  plead  from  off  the  tree  with  outspread  arms, 

To  show  them  that  the  Son  of  God  endured 

For  them  —  and  me.     Hush  !  I  alone  will  speak, 

And  while  away  the  hours  till  dawn  for  you. 

I  know  you  have  forgiven  me ;  as  I  lay 

Beneath  your  feet,  while  they  were  binding  me, 

I  knew  I  was  forgiven  then  !     When  I  cried 

"  Here  am  I,  husband  !     The  lost  lamb  returned, 

All  re-baptized  in  blood  ! "  and  you  said,  "  Come  ! 

Come  to  thy  bride-bed,  martyr,  wife  once  more  !  " 

From  that  same  moment  all  my  pain  was  gone ; 

And  ever  since  those  sightless  eyes  have  smiled 

Love —  love  !    Alas,  those  eyes !     They  made  me  fall. 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  them  bleeding,  dark, 

Never,  no  never  to  look  into  mine ; 

Never  to  watch  me  round  the  little  room 

Singing  about  my  work,  or  flash  on  me 

Looks  bright  with  counsel.  —  Then  they  drove  me  mad 

With  talk  of  nameless  tortures  waiting  you  — 

And  I  could  save  you  !     You  would  hear  your  love  — 

They  knew  you  loved  me,  cruel  men  !     And  then  — 

Then  came  a  dream  ;  to  say  one  little  word, 

One  easy  wicked  word,  we  both  might  say, 

And  no  one  hear  us,  but  the  lictors  round ; 

One  tiny  sprinkle  of  the  incense  grains, 

And  both,  both  free  !     And  life  had  just  begun  — 

Only  three  months  —  short  months — your  wedded  wife 

Only  three  months  within  the  cottage  there  — 

Hoping  I  bore  your  child.  .  .  . 


SAINT  MAURA.  8/ 


Ah  !  husband  !  Saviour  !  God  !  think  gently  of  me  ! 
I  am  forgiven !  .  .  . 

And  then  another  dream  ; 

A  Hash  —  so  quick,  I  could  not  bear  the  blaze; 
I  could  not  see  the  smoke  among  the  light  — 
To  wander  out  through  unknown  lands,  and  lead 
You  by  the  hand  through  hamlet,  port,  and  town, 
On,  on,  until  we  died  ;  and  stand  each  day 
To  glory  in  you,  as  you  preached  and  prayed 
From  rock  and  bourne-stone,  with  that  voice,  those  words, 
Mingled  with  fire  and  honey  —  you  would  wake, 
Bend,  save  whole  nations !  would  not  that  atone 
For  one  short  word  ?  —  ay,  make  it  right,  to  save 
You,  you,  to  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord  ? 
And  so  —  and  so  —  alas  !  you  knew  the  rest ! 
You  answered  me.  .  .  . 

Ah  cruel  words  !     No  !     Blessed,  godlike  words  ! 
You  had  done  nobly  had  you  struck  me  dead, 
Instead  of  striking  me  to  life  !  — the  temptress  !  .  .  . 

"  Traitress !  apostate  !  dead  to  God  and  me  !  " 

"The  smell  of  death  upon  me  ?  "  —  so  it  was  ! 
True  !  true  !  well  spoken,  hero  !     Oh  they  snapped, 
Those  words,  my  madness,  like  the  angel's  voice 
Thrilling  the  graves  to  birth-pangs.     All  was  clear. 
There  was  but  one  right  thing  in  the  world  to  do ; 
And  I  must  do  it.  ...  Lord,  have  mercy  !     Christ ! 
Help  through  my  womanhood :  or  I  shall  fail 
Yet,  as  I  failed  before  !  .  .  .     I  could  not  speak  — 
I  could  not  speak  for  shame  and  misery, 
And  terror  of  my  sin,  and  of  the  things 
I  knew  were  coming  :  but  in  heaven,  in  heaven  ! 
There  we  should  meet,  perhaps  —  and  by  that  time 
I  might  be  worthy  of  you  once  again  — 
Of  you,  and  of  my  God.  ...     So  I  went  out. 


88  SAINT  MAURA. 


Will  you  hear  more,  and  so  forget  the  pain  ? 
And  yet  I  dread  to  tell  you  what  comes  next; 
Your  love  will  feel  it  all  again  for  me. 
No  !  it  is  over ;  and  the  woe  that 's  dead 
Rises  next  hour  a  glorious  angel.     Love  ! 
Say,  shall  I  tell  you  ?     Ah  !  your  lips  are  dry  ! 
To-morrow,  when  they  come,  we  must  entreat, 
And  they  will  give  you  water.     One  to-day, 
A  soldier,  gave  me  water  in  a  sponge 
Upon  a  reed,  and  said,  "  Too  fair  !  too  young ! 
She  might  have  been  a  gallant  soldier's  wife !  " 
And  then  I  cried,  "  I  am'a  soldier's  wife  ! 
A  hero's  !  "     And  he  smiled,  but  let  me  drink. 
God  bless  him  for  it ! 

So  they  led  me  back  : 
And  as  I  went,  a  voice  was  in  my  ears 
Which  rang  through  all  the  sunlight,  and  thekbreath 
And  blaze  of  all  the  garden  slopes  below, 
And  through  the  harvest-voices,  and  the  moan 
O£  cedar-forests  on  the  cliffs  above, 
And  round  the  shining  rivers,  and  the  peaks 
Which  hung  beyond  the  cloud-bed  of  the  west, 
And  round  the  ancient  stones  about  my  feet. 
Out  of  all  heaven  and  earth  it  rang,  and  cried, 
"  My  hand  hath  made  all  these.     Am  I  too  weak 
To  give  thee  strength  to  say  so  ? "     Then  my  soul 
Spread  like  a  clear  blue  sky  within  my  breast, 
While  all  the  people  made  a  ring  around, 
And  in  the  midst  the  judge  spoke  smilingly  — 
"  Well !  hast  thou  brought  him  to  a  better  mind  ?  " 
"  No  !  he  has  brought  me  to  a  better  mind  !  "  — 
I  cried,  and  said  beside  —  I  know  not  what  — 
Words  which  I  learnt  from  thee  —  I  trust  in  God 


SAINT  MAURA.  89 


Nought  fierce  or  rude  —  for  was  I  not  a  girl 

Three  months  ago  beneath  my  mother's  roof  ? 

I  thought  of  that.     She  might  be  there  !     I  looked  — 

She  was  not  there !     I  hid  my  face  and  wept. 

And  when  I  looked  again,  the  judge's  eye 

Was  on  me,  cold  and  steady,  deep  in  thought  — 

"  She  knows  what  shame  is  still ;  so  strip  her."     "  Ah !  " 

I  shrieked,  "  Not  that,  Sir  !     Any  pain  !     So  young 

I  am  —  a  wife  too —  I  am  not  my  own, 

But  his —  my  husband's  !  "     But  they  took  my  shawl, 

And  tore  my  tunic  off,  and  there  I  stood 

Before  them  all.  .  .  .     Husband  !  you  love  me  still  ? 

Indeed  I  pleaded  !     Oh,  shine  out,  kind  moon, 

And  let  me  see  him  smile  !     Oh  !  how  I  prayed, 

While  some  cried  "  Shame  ! "  and  some,  "  She  is  too  young !" 

And  some  mocked  —  ugly  words  :  God  shut  my  ears. 

And  yet  no  earthquake  came  to  swallow  me. 

While  all  the  court  around,  and  walls,  and  roofs, 

And  all  the  earth  and  air  were  full  of  eyes, 

Eyes,  eyes,  which  scorched  my  limbs  like  burning  flame, 

Until  my  brain  seemed  bursting  from  my  brow: 

And  yet  no  earthquake  came  !     And  then  I  knew 

This  body  was  not  yours  alone,  but  God's  — 

His  loan  —  He  needed  it :  and  after  that 

The  worst  was  come,  and  any  torture  more 

A  change  —  a  lightening  ;  and  I  did  not  shriek  — 

Once  only  —  once,  when  first  I  felt  the  whip  — 

It  coiled  so  keen  around  my  side,  and  sent 

A  fire-flash  through  my  heart  which  choked  me  —  then 

I  shrieked  —  that  once.     The  foolish  echo  rang 

So  far  and  long  —  I  prayed  you  might  not  hear. 

And  then  a  mist,  which  hid  the  ring  of  eyes, 

Swam  by  me,  and  a  murmur  in  my  ears 

Of  humming  bees  around  the  limes  at  home ; 


GO  SAINT  MAURA. 


And  I  was  all  alone  with  you  and  God. 

And  what  they  did  to  me  I  hardly  know ; 

I  felt,  and  did  not  feel.     Now  I  look  back, 

It  was  not  after  all  so  very  sharp : 

So  do  not  pity  me.     It  made  me  pray; 

Forget  my  shame  in  pain,  and  pain  in  you, 

And  you  in  God :  and  once,  when  I  looked  down, 

And  saw  an  ugly  sight  —  so  many  wounds  ! 

"  What  matter  !  "  thought  I.     "  His  dear  eyes  are  dark  ; 

Fo.  them  alone  I  kept  these  limbs  so  white  — 

A  foolish  pride  !     As  God  wills  now.     'Tis  just." 

But  then  the  judge  spoke  out  in  haste :  "  She  is  mad, 
Or  fenced  by  magic  arts  !     She  feels  no  pain  !  " 
He  did  not  know  I  was  on  fire  within  : 
Better  he  should  not ;  so  his  sin  was  less. 
Then  he  cried  fiercely,  "  Take  the  slave  away, 
And  crucify  her  by  her  husband's  side !" 
And  at  those  words  a  film  came  on  my  face  — 
A  sickening  rush  of  joy —  was  that  the  end  ? 
That  my  reward  ?     I  rose,  and  tried  to  go  — 
But  all  the  eyes  had  vanished,  and  the  judge ; 
And  all  the  buildings  melted  into  mist : 
So  how  they  brought  me  here  I  cannot  tell  — 
Here,  here,  by  you,  until  the  judgment-day, 
And  after  that  forever  and  forever  ! 
Ah  !  If  I  could  but  reach  that  hand  !     One  touch ! 
One  finger  tip,  to  send  the  thrill  through  me 
I  felt  but  yesterday  ! —  No  !  I  can  wait :  — 
Another  body  !  —  Oh,  new  limbs  are  ready, 
Free,  pure,  instinct  with  soul  through  every  nerve, 
Kept  for  us  in  the  treasuries  of  God. 
They  will  not  mar  the  love  they  try  to  speak, 
They  will  not  fail  my  soul,  as  these  have  done  ! 


SAINT  MAURA.  91 


Will  you  hear  more  ?     Nay  —  you  know  all  the  rest : 
Yet  those  poor  eyes —  alas  !  they  could  not  see 
My  waking,  when  you  hung  above  me  there 
With  hands  outstretched  to  bless  the  penitent  — 
Your  penitent  —  even  like  the  Lord  Himself  — 
I  gloried  in  you  !  —  like  the  Lord  Himself  ! 
Sharing  His  very  sufferings,  to  the  crown 
Of  thorns  which  they  had  put  on  that  dear  brow 
To  make  you  like  Him  —  show  you  as  you  were  ! 
I  told  them  so !     I  bid  them  look  on  you, 
And  see  there  what  was  the  highest  throne  on  earth — • 
The  throne  of  suffering,  where  the  Son  of  God 
Endured  and  triumphed  for  them.     But  they  laughed; 
All  but  one  soldier,  gray,  with  many  scars ; 
And  he  stood  silent.     Then  I  crawled  to  you, 
And  kissed  your  bleeding  feet,  and  called  aloud  — 
You  heard  me  !     You  know  all !     I  am  at  peace. 
Peace,  peace,  as  still  and  bright  as  is  the  moon 
Upon  your  limbs,  came  on  me  at  your  smile, 
And  kept  me  happy,  when  they  dragged  me  back 
From  that  last  kiss,  and  spread  me  on  the  cross, 
And  bound  my  wrists  and  ankles  —  Do  not  sigh ; 
I  prayed,  and  bore  it :  and  since  they  raised  me  up 
My  eyes  have  never  left  your  face,  my  own,  my  own, 
Nor  will,  till  death  comes  !  .  .  . 

Do  I  feel  much  pain  ? 

Not  much.     Not  maddening.     None  I  cannot  bear. 
It  has  become  like  part  of  my  own  life, 
Or  part  of  God's  life  in  me  —  honor  —  bliss  ! 
I  dreaded  madness,  and  instead  comes  rest ; 
Rest  deep  and  smiling,  like  a  summer's  night. 
I  should  be  easy,  now,  if  I  could  move  .  .  . 
I  cannot  stir.     Ah  God  !  these  shoots  of  fire 
Through  all  my  limbs!    Hush,  selfish  girl!    He  hears  you 


92  SAINT  MA  UK  A. 


Who  ever  found  the  cross  a  pleasant  bed  ? 

Yes  ;   I  can  bear  it,  love.     Pain  is  no  evil 

Unless  it  conquers  us.     These  little  wrists,  now  — 

You  said,  one  blessed  night,  they  were  too  slender, 

Too  soft  and  slender  for  a  deacon's  wife  — 

Perhaps*a  martyr's  :  —  You  forgot  the  strength 

Which  God  can  give.     The  cord  has  cut  them  through ; 

And  yet  my  voice  has  never  faltered  yet. 

Oh  !  do  not  groan,  or  I  shall  long  and  pray 

That  you  may  die :  and  you  must  not  die  yet. 

Not  yet  —  they  told  us  we  might  live  three  days  .  .  . 

Two  clays  for  you  to  preach  !     Two  days  to  speak 

Words  which  may  wake  the  dead  ! 

Hush  !  is  he  sleeping  ? 

They  say  that  men  have  slept  upon  the  cross  ; 
So  why  not  he  ?  ...  Thanks,  Lord  !     I  hear  him  breathe  : 
And  he  will  preach  Thy  word  to-morrow  ! — save 
Souls,  crowds,  for  thee  !     And  they  will  know  his  worth 
Years  hence  —  poor  things,  they  know  not  what  they  do  !  — 
And  crown  him  martyr  ;  and  his  name  will  ring 
Through  all  the  shores  of  earth,  and  all  the  stars 
Whose  eyes  are  sparkling  through  their  tears  to  see 
His  triumph  —  Preacher  !  Martyr  !  —  Ah  — and  me  ?  — 
Tf  they  must  couple  my  poor  name  with  his, 
Let  them  tell  all  the  truth  —  say  how  I  loved  him, 
And  tried  to  damn  him  by  that  love  !     Oh  Lord  ! 
Returning  good  for  evil !  and  was  this 
The  payment  I  deserved  for  such  a  sin  ? 
To  hang  here  on  my  cross,  and  look  at  him 
Until  we  kneel  before  Thy  throne  in  heaven ! 

EVERSLEY,    1852. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CERTAIN  JOURNAL.  93 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CERTAIN. 
JOURNAL.1 

So  die,  thou  child  of  stormy  dawn, 
Thou  winter  flower,  forlorn  of  nurse ; 
Chilled  early  by  the  bigot's  curse, 
The  pedant's  frown,  the  worldling's  yawn. 

Fair  death,  to  fall  in  teeming  June, 
When  every  seed  which  drops  to  earth 
Takes  root,  and  wins  a  second  birth 
From  steaming  shower  and  gleaming  moon. 

Fall  warm,  fall  fast,  thou  mellow  rain ; 
Thou  rain  of  God,  make  fat  the  land ; 
That  roots  which  parch  in  burning  sand 
May  bud  to  flower  and  fruit  again. 

To  grace,  perchance,  a  fairer  morn 
In  mightier  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
While  honor  falls  to  such  as  we 
From  hearts  of  heroes  yet  unborn, 

Who  in  the  light  of  fuller  day, 
Of  purer  science,  holier  laws, 
Bless  us,  faint  heralds  of  their  cause, 
Dim  beacons  of  their  glorious  way. 


1  The  Christian  Socialist,  started  by  the  Council  of  Associates  for  promotion 
of  Co-operation. 


94  DOWN  TO    THE  MOTHERS. 

Failure  ?     While  tide-floods  rise  and  boil 
Round  cape  and  isle,  in  port  and  cove, 
Resistless,  star-led  from  above  : 
What  though  our  tiny  wave  recoil  ? 

EVERSLEY,    1852. 


DOWN   TO   THE   MOTHERS. 

LINGER  no  more,  my  beloved,  by  abbey  and  cell  and  cathe- 
dral ; 
Mourn  not  for  holy  ones  mourning  of  old  them  who  knew  not 

the  Father, 
Weeping  with  fast  and  scourge,  when  the  bridegroom   was 

taken  from  them. 
Drop  back  awhile  through  the  years,  to  the  warm  rich  youth 

of  the  nations, 
Childlike  in  virtue  and  faith,  though  childlike  in  passion  and 

pleasure, 
Childlike  still,  and  still  near  to  their  God,  while  the  day-spring 

of  Eden 

Lingered  in  rose-red  rays  on  the  peaks  of  Ionian  mountains. 
Down  to  the  mothers,  as  Faust  went,  I  go,  to  the  roots  of  our 

manhood. 

Mothers  of  us  in  our  cradles ;  of  us  once  more  in  our  glory. 
New-born,  body  and  soul,  in  the  great  pure  world  which  shall 

be 
In  the  renewing  of  all  things,  when  man  shall  return  to  his 

Eden 
Conquering  evil,  and  death,  and  shame,  and  the  slander  of 

conscience  — 
Free  in  the  sunshine  of  Godhead — and  fearlessly  smile  on 

his  Father. 


BALLAD   OF  EARL  H ALDAN'S  DAUGHTER.  95 

Down  to  the  mothers  I  go  —  yet  with  thee  still !  —  be  with 

me,  thou  purest ! 
Lead  me,  thy  hand  in  my  hand ;  and  the  day-spring  of  God 

go  before  us. 
EVERSLEY,  1852. 


TO   MISS   MITFORD. 

AUTHORESS   OF    "  OUR   VILLAGE." 

THE  single  eye,  the  daughter  of  the  light ; 
Well  pleased  to  recognize  in  lowliest  shade 
Some  glimmer  of  its  parent  beam,  and  made 
By  daily  draughts  of  brightness,  inly  bright. 
The  taste  severe,  yet  graceful,  trained  aright 
In  classic  depth  and  clearness,  and  repaid 
By  thanks  and  honor  from  the  wise  and  staid  — 
By  pleasant  skill  to  blame,  and  yet  delight, 
And  high  communion  with  the  eloquent  throng 
Of  those  who  purified  our  speech  and  song  — 
All  these  are  yours.     The  same  examples  lure, 
You  in  each  woodland,  me  on  breezy  moor  — 
With  kindred  aim  the  same  sweet  path  along, 
To  knit  in  loving  knowledge  rich  and  poor. 
EVERSLEY,  1853. 


BALLAD   OF   EARL   HALDAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  Earl  Haldan's  daughter, 

She  looked  across  the  sea ; 
She  looked  across  the  water ; 

And  long  and  loud  laughed  she : 


96  BALLAD   OF  EARL  H ALDAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  The  locks  of  six  princesses 
Must  be  my  marriage  fee, 
So  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 
Who  comes  a  wooing  me  ?  " 

It  was  Earl  Haldan's  daughter, 

She  walked  along  the  sand ; 
When  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  so  fair, 

Came  sailing  to  the  land. 
His  sails  were  all  of  velvet, 

His  mast  of  beaten  gold, 
And  "  Hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 

Who  saileth  here  so  bold  ?  " 

"The  locks  of  five  princesses 

I  won  beyond  the  sea ; 
I  clipt  their  golden  tresses, 

To  fringe  a  cloak  for  thee. 
One  handful  yet  is  wanting, 

But  one  of  all  the  tale ; 
So  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 

Furl  up  thy  velvet  sail !  " 

He  leapt  into  the  water, 

That  rover  young  and  bold ; 
He  gript  Earl  Haldan's  daughter, 

He  clipt  her  locks  of  gold  : 
"  Go  weep,  go  weep,  proud  maiden, 

The  tale  is  full  to-day. 
Now  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 

Sail  Westward  ho  !  away  !  " 
DEVONSHIRE,  1854.    From  "  West-ward  Ho  !" 


ODE    TO    THE  NORTH-EAST  WIND. 


97 


FRANK   LEIGH'S   SONG.  A.  D.  1586. 

AH  tyrant  Love,  Megaera's  serpents  bearing, 

Why  thus  requite  my  sighs  with  venom'd  smart  ? 

Ah  ruthless  dove,  the  vulture's  talons  wearing, 
Why  flesh  them,  traitress,  in  this  faithful  heart  ? 

Is  this  my  meed  ?     Must  dragons'  teeth  alone 

In  Venus'  lawns  by  lovers'  hands  be  sown  ? 

Nay,  gentlest  Cupid  ;  '  t  was  my  pride  undid  me  ; 
Nay,  guiltless  dove ;  by  mine  own  wound  I  fell. 
To  worship,  not  to  wed,  Celestials  bid  me  : 

I  dreamt  to  mate  in  heaven,  and  wake  in  hell ; 
Forever  doom'd,  Ixion-like,  to  reel 
On  mine  own  passions'  ever-burning  wheel. 
DEVONSHIRE,  1854.    From  "  Westward  Ho!  " 


ODE   TO   THE   NORTH-EAST  WIND. 

WELCOME,  wild  North-easter ! 

Shame  it  is  to  see 
Odes  to  every  zephyr  ; 

Ne'er  a  verse  to  thee. 
Welcome,  black  North-easter ! 

O'er  the  German  foam  ; 
O'er  the  Danish  moorlands, 

From  thy  frozen  home. 
Tired  we  are  of  summer, 

Tired  of  gaudy  glare, 
Showers  soft  and  steaming, 

Hot  and  breathless  air. 


98  ODE   TO    THE  NORTH-EAST  WIND. 

Tired  of  listless  dreaming, 

Through  the  lazy  day  : 
Jovial  wind  of  winter 

Turns  us  out  to  play ! 
Sweep  the  golden  reed-beds ; 

Crisp  the  lazy  dyke  ; 
Hunger  into  madness 

Every  plunging  pike. 
Fill  the  lake  with  wild-fowl ; 

Fill  the  marsh  with  snipe ; 
While  on  dreary  moorlands 

Lonely  curlew  pipe. 
Through  the  black  fir-forest 

Thunder  harsh  and  dry, 
Shattering  down  the  snow-flakes 

Off  the  curdled  sky. 
Hark  !  The  brave  North-easter  ! 

Breast-high  lies  the  scent, 
On  by  holt  and  headland, 

Over  heath  and  bent. 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings, 

Through  the  sleet  and  snow. 
Who  can  over-ride  you  ? 

Let  the  horses  go  ! 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings, 

Down  the  roaring  blast ; 
You  shall  see  a  fox  die 

Ere  an  hour  be  past. 
Go  !  and  rest  to-morrow, 

Hunting  in  your  dreams, 
While  our  skates  are  ringing 

O'er  the  frozen  streams. 
Let  the  luscious  South-wind 

Breathe  in  lovers'  sighs, 


A  FAREWELL.  99 


•  While  the  lazy  gallants 

Bask  in  ladies'  eyes. 
What  does  he  but  soften 

Heart  alike  and  pen  ? 
'T  is  the  hard  gray  weather 

Breeds  hard  English  men. 
What 's  the  soft  South-wester  ? 

'T  is  the  ladies'  breeze, 
Bringing  home  their  true-loves 

Out  of  all  the  seas  : 
But  the  black  North-easter, 

Through  the  snowstorm  hurled, 
Drives  our  English  hearts  of  oak 

Seaward  round  the  world. 
Come,  as  came  our  fathers, 

Heralded  by  thee, 
Conquering  from  the  eastward, 

Lords  by  land  and  sea. 
Come  ;  and  strong  within  us 

Stir  the  Vikings'  blood  ; 
Bracing  brain  and  sinew  ; 

Blow,  thou  wind  of  God ! 
1854. 

A   FAREWELL. 

TO   C.  E.  G. 

MY  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  in  skies  so  dull  and  gray ; 
Yet,  if  you  will,  one  quiet  hint  I  '11  leave  you, 
For  every  day. 

I  '11  tell  you  how  to  sing  a  clearer  carol 

Than  lark  who  hails  the  dawn  or  breezy  down ; 


IOO  TO   G.  A.  G. 


To  earn  yourself  a  purer  poet's  laurel 
Than  Shakespeare's  crown. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  can  be  clever ; 

Do  lovely  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  Life,  and  Death,  and  that  Forever, 
One  grand  sweet  song. 

February  i,  1856. 


To   G.  A.  G. 

A  HASTY  jest  I  once  let  fall  — 
As  jests  are  wont  to  be,  untrue  — 
As  if  the  sum  of  joy  to  you 

Were  hunt  and  picnic,  rout  and  ball. 

Your  eyes  met  mine  :  I  did  not  blame  ; 
You  saw  it :  but  I  touched  too  near 
Some  noble  nerve ;  a  silent  tear 

Spoke  soft  reproach,  and  lofty  shame. 

I  do  not  wish  those  words  unsaid. 
Unspoilt  by  praise  and  pleasure,  you 
In  that  one  look  to  woman  grew, 

While  with  a  child,  I  thought,  I  played. 

Next  to  mine  own  beloved  so  long ! 

I  have  not  spent  my  heart  in  vain. 

I  watched  the  blade  ;  I  see  the  grain  ; 
A  woman's  soul,  most  soft,  yet  strong. 

EVERSLEY,    1856. 


THE  INVITATION.  '  IOI 


THE   SOUTH   WIND. 
A  FISHERMAN'S  BLESSINGS. 

OH  blessed  drums  of  Aldershot ! 

Oh  blessed  South-west  train  ! 
Oh  blessed,  blessed  Speaker's  clock, 

All  prophesying  rain ! 

Oh  blessed  yaffil,  laughing  loud  ! 

Oh  blessed  falling  glass  ! 
Oh  blessed  fan  of  cold  gray  cloud ! 

Oh  blessed  smelling  grass  ! 

Oh  bless'd  South  wind  that  toots  his  horn 
Through  every  hole  and  crack ! 

I  'm  off  at  eight  to-morrow  morn, 
To  bring  such  fishes  back  ! 

EVERSLEY,  April  i,  1856. 


THE   INVITATION. 

TO   TOM    HUGHES. 

COME  away  with  me,  Tom, 
Term  and  talk  are  done ; 
My  poor  lads  are  reaping, 
Busy  every  one. 
Curates  mind  the  parish, 
Sweepers  mind  the  court ; 
We  '11  away  to  Snowdon 
For  our  ten  days'  sport ; 


ic2  '.T;J£  INVITATION. 


Fish  the  August  evening 
Till  the  eve  is  past, 
Whoop  like  boys,  at  pounders 
Fairly  played  and  grassed. 
When  they  cease  to  dimple, 
Lunge,  and  swerve,  and  leap, 
Then  up  over  Siabod, 
Choose  our  nest,  and  sleep. 
Up  a  thousand  feet,  Tom, 
Round  the  lion's  head, 
Find  soft  stones  to  leeward 
And  make  up  our  bed. 
Eat  our  bread  and  bacon, 
Smoke  the  pipe  of  peace, 
And,  ere  we  be  drowsy, 
Give  our  boots  a  grease. 
Homer's  heroes  did  so, 
Why  not  such  as  we  ? 
What  are  sheets  and  servants  ? 
Superfluity ! 

Pray  for  wives  and  children 
Safe  in  slumber  curled, 
Then  to  chat  till  midnight 
O'er  this  babbling  world  — 
Of  the  workmen's  college, 
Of  the  price  of  grain, 
Of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
Of  the  chance  of  rain  ; 
If  Sir  A.  goes  Romeward, 
If  Miss  B.  sings  true, 
If  the  fleet  comes  homeward, 
If  the  mare  will  do, — 
Anything  and  everything  — 
Up  there  in  the  sky     • 


THE  INVITATION.  IO3 

Angels  understand  us, 
And  no  "  saints  "  are  by. 
Down,  and  bathe  at  day-dawn, 
Tramp  from  lake  to  lake, 
Washing  brain  and  heart  clean 
Every  step  we  take. 
Leave  to  Robert  Browning 
Beggars,  fleas,  and  vines  ; 
Leave  to  mournful  Ruskin, 
Popish  Apennines, 
Dirty  Stones  of  Venice 
And  his  Gas-lamps  Seven  — 
We  Ve  the  stones  of  Snowdon 
And  the  lamps  of  heaven. 
Where  's  the  mighty  credit 
In  admiring  Alps  ? 
Any  goose  sees  "  glory  " 
In  their  "  snowy  scalps." 
Leave  such  signs  and  wonders 
For  the  dullard  brain. 
As  aesthetic  brandy, 
Opium  and  cayenne. 
Give  me  Bramshill  common 
(St.  John's  harriers  by), 
Or  the  vale  of  Windsor, 
England's  golden  eye. 
Show  me  life  and  progress, 
Beauty,  health,  and  man  ; 
Houses  fair,  trim  gardens, 
Turn  where'er  I  can. 
Or,  if  bored  with  "  High  Art," 
And  such  popish  stuff, 
One's  poor  ear  need  airing, 
Snowdon  's  high  enough. 


104  THE 


While  we  find  God's  signet 
Fresh  on  English  ground, 
Why  go  gallivanting 
With  the  nations  round  ? 
Though  we  try  no  ventures 
Desperate  or  strange  ; 
Feed  on  common-places 
In  a  narrow  range  ; 
Never  sought  for  Franklin 
Round  the  frozen  Capes ; 
Even,  with  Macdougall,1 
Bagged  our  brace  of  apes ; 
Never  had  our  .chance,  Tom, 
In  that  black  Redan  ; 
Can't  avenge  poor  Brereton 
Out  in  Sakarran ; 
Tho*  we  earn  our  bread,  Tom, 
By  the  dirty  pen, 
What  we  can  we  will  be, 
Honest  Englishmen. 
Do  the  work  that 's  nearest, 
Though  it 's  dull  at  whiles, 
Helping,  when  we  meet  them, 
Lame  dogs  over  stiles ; 
See  in  every  hedgerow 
Marks  of  angels'  feet, 
Epics  in  each  pebble 
Underneath  our  feet ; 
Once  a  year,  like  schoolboys, 
Robin-Hooding  go, 
Leaving  fops  and  fogies 
A  thousand  feet  below. 

EVERSLEY,  August,  1856. 

1  Bishop  of  Labuan,  in  Borneo. 


7'///<;  /--AW  105 


THE  FIND. 

YON  sound  's  neither  sheep-bell  nor  bark, 

They  're  running  —  they  're  running,  Go  hark  ! 

The  sport  may  be  lost  by  a  moment's  delay ; 

So  whip  up  the  puppies  and  scurry  away. 
Dash  clown  through  the  cover  by  dingle  and  dell, 
There  's  a  gate  at  the  bottom  —  I  know  it  full  well ; 
And  they're  running  —  they're  running, 
Go  hark ! 

They're  running  —  they  're  running,  Go  hark  ! 

One  fence  and  we  're  out  of  the  park ; 

Sit  down  in  your  saddles  and  race  at  the  brook, 

Then  smash  at  the  bullfinch  ;  no  time  for  a  look ; 
Leave  cravens  and  skirters  to  dangle  behind  ; 
He  's  away  for  the  moors  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
And  they're  running  —  they  're  running, 
Go  hark  ! 

They  're  running  —  they're  running,  Go  hark  ! 

Let  them  run  on  and  run  till  it 's  dark  ! 

Well  with  them  we  are,  and  well  with  them  we  '11  be, 

While  there's  wind  in  our  horses  and  daylight  to  see 
Then  shog  along  homeward,  chat  over  the  fight, 
And  hear  in  our  dreams  the  sweet  music  all  night 
Of  —  They  're  running  —  they  're  running, 
Go  hark ! 

EVERSLEY,  1856. 


IO6  THE   LAST  BUCCANEER. 

FISHING   SONG. 

TO   J.    A.    FROUDE    AND   TOM    HUGHES. 

OH,  Mr.  Froude,  how  wise  and  good, 

To  point  us  out  this  way  to  glory  — 
They  're  no  great  shakes,  those  Snowdon  Lakes, 

And  all  their  pounders  myth  and  story. 
Blow  Snowdon  !     What 's  Lake  Gwynant  to  Killarney, 
Or  spluttering  Welsh  to  tender  blarney,  blarney,  blarney  ? 

So  Thomas  Hughes,  sir,  if  you  choose, 
I  '11  tell  you  where  we  think  of  going, 
To  swate  and  far  o'er  cliff  and  scar, 

Hear  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing; 
Blow  Snowdon  !     There  's  a  hundred  lakes  to  try  in, 
And  fresh  caught  salmon  daily,  frying,  frying,  frying. 

Geology,and  botany 

A  hundred  wonders  shall  diskiver, 
We  '11  flog  and  troll  in  strid  and  hole, 

And  skim  the  cream  of  lake  and  river. 
Blow  Snowdon !  give  me  Ireland  for  my  pennies, 
Hurrah!  for  salmon,  grilse,  and  —  Dennis,  Dennis,  Dennis! 

EVERSLEY,    1856. 

THE   LAST   BUCCANEER. 

OH  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that 's  rich  and  high, 
But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor  folks  as  I ; 
And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne'er  shall  see  again 
As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the  Spanish  main. 


THE  LAST  BUCCANEER.  IO/ 

There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were   both   swift  and 

stout, 

All  furnished  well  with  small  arms  and  cannons  round  about ; 
And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws  so  fair  and  free 
To  choose  their  valiant  captains  and  obey  them  loyally. 

Thence  we   sailed  against  the  Spaniard  with  his  hoards  of 

plate  and  gold, 

Which  he  wrung  with  cruel  tortures  from  Indian  folk  of  old ; 
Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with  hearts  as  hard  as  stone, 
Who  flog  men  and  keel-haul  them,  and  starve  them  to  the  bone. 

Oh  the  palms  grew  high  in  Aves,  and  fruits  that  shone  like 

gold, 

And  the  colibris  and  parrots  they  were  gorgeous  to  behold ; 
And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage  fast  did  flee, 
To  welcome  gallant  sailors,  a-sweeping  in  from  sea. 

Oh  sweet  it  was  in  Aves  to  hear  the  landward  breeze, 
A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  between  the  trees. 
With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you,  while  you  listen  to  the  roar 
Of  the  breakers  on  the  reef  outside,  that  never  touched  the 
shore. 

But  Scripture  saith,  an  ending  to  all  fine  things  must  be ; 

So  the  King's  ships  sailed  on  Aves,  and  quite  put  down  were 

we. 
All  day  we  fought  like  bulldogs,  but  they  burst  the  booms  at 

night ; 
And  I  fled  in  a  piragua,  sore  wounded,  from  the  fight. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro  lass  beside, 
Till  for  all  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  the  poor  young  thing  she 
died; 


IOS  THE  KXICIIT'S  RETURN. 

But  as  I  lay  a  gasping,  a  Bristol  sail  came  by, 

And  brought  me  home  to  England  here,  to  beg  until  I  die. 

And  now  I  'm  old  and  going  —  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell  where ; 
One  comfort  is,  this  world  's  so  hard,  I  can  't  be  worse  off 

there  : 

If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove,  I  'd  fly  across  the  main, 
To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  to  look  at  it  once  again. 

EVERSLEY,    1857. 


THE   KNIGHT'S   RETURN. 

HARK  !  hark  !  hark  ! 

The  lark  sings  high  in  the  dark. 

The  were  wolves  mutter,  the  night  hawks  moan, 

The  raven  croaks  from  the  Raven-stone ; 

What  care  I  for  his  boding  groan, 

Riding  the  moorland  to  come  to  mine  own  ? 

Hark  !  hark  !  hark  ! 

The  lark  sings  high  in  the  dark. 

Hark  !  hark  !  hark  ! 

The  lark  sings  high  in  the  dark. 

Long  have  I  wandered  by  land  and  by  sea, 

Long  have  I  ridden  by  moorland  and  lea ; 

Yonder  she  sits  with  my  babe  on  her  knee, 

Sits  at  the  window  and  watches  for  me ! 

Hark!  hark!  hark! 

The  lark  sings  high  in  the  dark. 

Written  for  Music,  1857. 


PEN-  Y-G  WR  YDD.  I OQ 


PEN-Y-GWRYDD. 

TO   TOM    HUGHES,    ESQ. 

THERE  Is  no  inn  in  Snovvdon  which  is  not  awful  dear, 

Excepting  Pen-y-gwrydd  (you  can't  pronounce  it,  dear), 

Which  standeth  in  the  meeting  of  noble  valleys  three  — 

One  is  the  vale  of  Gwynant,  so  well  beloved  by  me, 

One  goes  to  Capel-Curig,  and  I  can't  mind  its  name, 

And  one  it  is  Llanberris  Pass,  which  all  men  knows  the  same ; 

Between  which  radiations  vast  mountains  does  arise, 

As  full  of  tarns  as  sieves  of  holes,  in  which  big  fish  will  rise, 

That  is,  just  one  day  in  the  year,  if  you  be  there,  my  boy, 

Just  about  ten  o'clock  at  night ;  and  then  I  wish  you  joy. 

Now  to  this  Pen-y-gwrydd  inn  I  purposeth  to  write, 

(Axing  the  post  town  out  of  Froude,  for  I  can't  mind  it  quite), 

And  to  engage  a  room  or  two,  for  let  us  say  a  week, 

For  fear  of  gents,  and  Manichees,  and  reading  parties  meek, 

And  there  to  live  like  fighting-cocks  at  almost  a  bob  a  day, 

And  arterwards  toward  the  sea  make  tracks  and  cut  away, 

All  for  to  catch  the  salmon  bold  in  Aberglaslyn  pool, 

And  work  the  flats  in  Traeth-Mawr,  and  will,  or  I  'm  a  fool. 

And  that 's  my  game,  which,  if  you  like,  respond  to  me  by 

post; 

But  I  fear  it  will  not  last,  my  son,  a  thirteen  days  at  most. 
Flies  is  no  object ;  I  can  tell  some  three  or  four  will  do, 
And  John  Jones,  Clerk,  he  knows  the  rest,  and  ties  and  sells 

'em  too. 

Besides  of  which  I  have  no  more  to  say,  leastwise  just  now, 
And  so,  goes  to  my  children's  school  and  'umbly  makes  my 

bow. 

EVERSLEY,    1857. 


IIO  ODE. 


ODE 

ON  THE  INSTALLATION  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  DEVONSHIRE,  CHANCELLOR 
OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAMBRIDGE,  I862.1 

HENCE  a  while,  severer  Muses ; 
Spare  your  slaves  till  drear  October. 
Hence  ;  for  Alma  Mater  chooses 
Not  to  be  forever  sober : 
But,  like  stately  matron  gray, 
Calling  child  and  grandchild  round  her, 
Will  for  them  at  least  be  gay ; 
Share  for  once  their  holiday ; 
And,  knowing  she  will  sleep  the  sounder, 
Cheerier-hearted  on  the  morrow 
Rise  to  grapple  care  and  sorrow, 
Grandly  leads  the  dance  adown,  and  joins  the 
children's  play. 

So  go,  for  in  your  places 

Already,  as  you  see, 

(Her  tears  for  some  deep  sorrow  scarcely  dried), 
Venus  holds  court  among  her  sinless  graces, 
With  many  a  nymph  from  many  a  park  and  lea. 
She,  pensive,  waits  the  merrier  faces 
Of  those  your  wittier  sisters  three, 
O'er  jest  and  dance  and  song  who  still  preside, 
To  cheer  her  in  this  merry-mournful  tide  ; 

And  bids  us.  as  she  smiles  or  sighs, 

Tune  our  fancies  by  her  eyes. 

1  This  Ode  was  set  to  Professor  Sterndale  Bennet's  music,  and  sung  in  the 
Senate  House,  Cambridge,  on  the  Day  of  Installation. 


ODE.  1 1 1 

Then  let  the  young  be  glad, 

Fair  girl  and  gallant  lad, 

And  sun  themselves  to-day 

By  lawn  and  garden  gay  ; 

JT  is  play  befits  the  noon 

Of  rosy-girdled  June ; 

Who  dare  frown  if  heaven  shall  smile  ? 

Blest,  who  can  forget  a  while ; 

The  world  before  them,  and  above 

The  light  of  universal  love. 
Go,  then,  let  the  young  be  gay ; 
From  their  heart  as  from  their  dress 
Let  darkness  and  let  mourning  pass  away, 
While  we  the  staid  and  worn  look  on  and  bless. 


Health  to  courage  firm  and  high  ! 
Health  to  Granta's  chivalry  ! 
Wisely  finding,  day  by  day, 
Play  in  toil,  and  toil  in  play. 
Granta  greets  them,  gliding  down 
On  by  park  and  spire  and  town ; 
Humming  mills  and  golden  meadows, 
Barred  with  elm  and  poplar  shadows ; 
Giant  groves,  and  learned  halls ; 
Holy  fanes  and  pictured  walls. 
Yet  she  bides  not  here  ;  around 
Lies  the  Muses'  sacred  ground. 
Most  she  lingers,  where  below 
Gliding  wherries  come  and  go  ; 
Stalwart  footsteps  shake  the  shores ; 
Rolls  the  pulse  of  stalwart  oars ; 
Rings  aloft  the  exultant  cry 
For  the  bloodless  victory. 


112  ODE. 

There  she  greets  the  sports,  which  breed 
Valiant  lads  for  England's  need ; 
Wisely  finding,  day  by  day, 
Play  in  toil,  and  toil  in  play. 
Health  to  courage,  firm  and  high ! 
Health  to  Granta's  chivalry  ! 

Yet  stay  a  while,  severer  Muses,  stay, 

For  you,  too,  have  your  rightful  parts  to-day. 

Known  long  to  you,  and  known  through  you  to  fame, 

Are  Chatsworth's  halls,  and  Cavendish's  name. 

You  too,  then,  Alma  Mater  calls  to  greet 

A  worthy  patron  for  your  ancient  seat ; 

And  bid  her  sons  from  him  example  take, 

Of  learning  purely  sought  for  learning's  sake, 

Of  worth  unboastful,  power  in  duty  spent ; 

And  see,  fulfilled  in  him,  her  high  intent. 

Come,  Euterpe,  wake  thy  choir ; 

Fit  thy  notes  to  our  desire. 

Long  may  he  sit  the  chiefest  here, 

Meet  us  and  greet  us,  year  by  year ; 

Long  inherit,  sire  and  son, 

All  that  their  race  has  wrought  and  won, 

Since  that  great  Cavendish  came  again, 

Round  the  world  and  over  the  main, 

Breasting  the  Thames  with  his  mariners  bold, 

Past  good  Queen  Bess'  palace  of  old  ; 

With  jewel  and  ingot  packed  in  his  hold, 

And  sails  of  damask  and  cloth  of  gold ; 

While  never  a  sailor-boy  on  board 

But  was  decked  as  brave  as  a  Spanish  lord, 

With  the  spoils  he  had  won 

In  the  Isles  of  the  Sun, 


ODE.  1 1 3 

And  the  shores  of  Fairy-land, 
And  yet  held  for  the  crown  of  the  goodly  show, 
That  queenly  smile  from  the  Palace  window, 

And  that  wave  of  a  queenly  hand. 

Yes,  let  the  young  be  gay, 

And  sun  themselves  to-day  ;  — 
And  from  their  hearts,  as  from  their  dress, 

Let  mourning  pass  away. 

But  not  from  us,  who  watch  our  years  fast  fleeing, 
And  snatching  as  they  flee,  fresh  fragments  of  out  being. 

Can  we  forget  one  friend, 

Can  we  forget  one  face, 

Which  cheered  us  toward  our  end, 

Which  nerved  us  for  our  race  ? 

Oh  sad  to  toil,  and  yet  forego 

One  presence  which  has  made  us  know 

To  God-like  souls  how  deep  our  debt ! 

We  would  not,  if  we  could,  forget 

Severer  Muses,  linger  yet ; 
Speak  out  for  us  one  pure  and  rich  regret. 
Thou,  Clio,  who,  with  awful  pen, 
Gravest  great  names  upon  the  hearts  of  men, 
Speak  of  a  fate  beyond  our  ken  ; 
A  gem  late  found  and  lost  too  soon  ; 1 
A  sun  gone  clown  at  highest  noon ; 
A  tree  from  Odin's  ancient  root, 
Which  bore  for  men  the  ancient  fruit, 
Counsel,  and  faith  and  scorn  of  wrong, 
And  cunning  lore,  and  soothing  song, 
Snapt  in  mid-growth,  and  leaving  unaware 
The  flock  unsheltered  and  the  pasture  bare. 

1  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Consort,  Chancellor  of  Cambridge  University. 


114  SONGS  FROM  "THE    WATER-BABIES." 

Nay,  let  us  take  what  God  shall  send, 
Trusting  bounty  without  end. 
God  ever  lives ;  and  Nature, 
Beneath  His  high  dictature, 
Hale  and  teeming,  can  replace 
Strength  by  strength,  and  grace  by  grace, 
Hope  by  hope,  and  friend  by  friend : 
Trust ;  and  take  what  God  shall  send. 

So  shall  Alma  Mater  see 

Daughters  fair  and  wise 
Train  new  lands  of  liberty 

Under  stranger  skies ; 
Spreading  round  the  teeming  earth 
English  science,  manhood,  worth. 
1862. 


SONGS   FROM   "THE  WATER-BABIES." 

THE   TIDE   RIVER. 

CLEAR  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 
By  laughing  shallow,  and  dreaming  pool ; 

Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 
By  shining  shingle,  and  foaming  weir ; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings, 
And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-bell  rings, 

Undefilecl,  for  the  undefiled  ; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul, 
By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl ; 


SONGS  FROM  "THE    WATER-BABIES."  115 

Foul  and  clank,  foul  and  dank, 
By  wharf  and  sewer  and  slimy  bank  ; 
Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go, 
Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow  ; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled  ? 
Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child. 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 
The  floodgates  are  open,  away  to  the  sea. 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 
Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along 
To  the  golden  sands,  and  the  leaping  bar, 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 
As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main, 
Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again. 

Undefilecl,  for  the  undefiled  ; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

From  "  The  Water-Babies."     EVERSLEY,  1862. 


YOUNG   AND   OLD. 

WHEN  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green ; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen  ; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away ; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 
And  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 

And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 
And  all  the  wheels  run  down; 


Il6  SO ATGS  FROM  "THE    WATER-BABIES? 

Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 
The  spent  and  maimed  among  : 

God  grant  you  find  one  face  there, 
You  loVed  when  all  was  young. 

From  "  The  Water-Babies."    1862. 


THE   SUMMER   SEA. 

SOFT  soft  wind,  from  out  the  sweet  south  sliding, 
Waft  thy  silver  cloud  webs  athwart  the  summer  sea ; 

Thin  thin  threads  of  mist  on  dewy  fingers  twining 
Weave  a  veil  of  dapple  gauze  to  shade  my  babe  and  me. 

Deep  deep  Love,  within  thine  own  abyss  abiding, 
Pour  Thyself  abroad,  O  Lord,  on  earth  and  air  and  sea ; 
Worn  weary  hearts  within  Thy  holy  temple  hiding, 
Shield  from  sorrow,  sin,  and  shame  my  helpless  babe  and 

me. 
From  "  The  Water-Babies."    1862. 


MY   LITTLE   DOLL. 

I  ONCE  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white,  dears, 

And  her  hair  was  so  charmingly  curled. 
But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day ; 
And  I  cried  for  more  than  a  week,  dears, 

But  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 

I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 
As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day : 


THE  KNIGHT'S  LEAP. 


Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  dears, 
For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away, 

And  her  arms  trodden  off  by  the  cows,  dears, 
And  her  hair  not  the  least  bit  curled  : 

Yet  for  old  sakes'  sake  she  is  still,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 
From  "  The  Water-Babies."    EVERSLEY,  1862. 


THE   KNIGHT'S   LEAP. 

A   LEGEND   OF   ALTENAHR. 

"  So  the  foemen  have  fired  the  gate,  men  of  mine  ; 

And  the  water  is  spent  and  gone  ? 
Then  bring  me  a  cup  of  the  red  Ahr-wine  : 

I  never  shall  drink  but  this  one. 

"  And  reach  me  my  harness,  and  saddle  my  horse, 

And  lead  him  me  round  to  the  door : 
He  must  take  such  a  leap  to-night  perforce, 

As  horse  never  took  before. 

"  I  have  fought  my  fight,  I  have  lived  my  life, 

I  have  drunk  my  share  of  wine ; 
From  Trier  to  Coin  there  was  never  a  knight 

Led  a  merrier  life  than  mine. 

"  I  have  lived  by  the  saddle  for  years  two  score ; 

And  if  I  must  die  on  tree, 
Then  the  old  saddle  tree,  which  has  borne  me  of  yore, 

Is  the  properest  timber  for  me. 


Il8  THE  SONG   OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG. 

"  So  now  to  show  bishop,  and  burgher,  and  priest, 

How  the  Altenahr  hawk  can  die  : 
If  they  smoke  the  old  falcon  out  of  his  nest, 

He  must  take  to  his  wings  and  fly." 

He  harnessed  himself  by  the  clear  moonshine, 
And  he  mounted  his  horse  at  the  door; 

And  he  drained  such  a  cup  of  the  red  Ahr-wine, 
As  man  never  drained  before. 

He  spurred  the  old  horse,  and  he  held  him  tight, 
And  he  leapt  him  out  over  the  wall ; 

Out  over  the  cliff,  out  into  the  night, 
Three  hundred  feet  of  fall. 

They  found  him  next  morning  below  in  the  glen, 
With  never  a  bone  in  him  whole  — 

A  mass  or  a  prayer,  now,  good  gentlemen, 
For  such  a  bold  rider's  soul. 

EVERSLEY,   1864. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG. 

A.  D.  395. 

A  HARPER  came  over  the  Danube  so  wide, 

And  he  came  into  Alaric's  hall, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  the  little  Baltung 

To  him  and  his  heroes  all. 

How  the  old  old  Bait  and  the  young  young  Bait 

Rode  out  of  Caucaland, 
With  the  royal  elephant's  trunk  on  helm 

And  the  royal  lance  in  hand. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG.  1 19 

Thuringer  heroes,  counts  and  knights, 

Pricked  proud  in  their  meinie ; 
For  they  were  away  to  the  great  Kaiser, 

In  Byzant  beside  the  sea. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  Danube  so  wide 

They  shouted  from  off  the  shore, 
"  Come  over,  come  over,  ye  Roman  slaves, 

And  ferry  your  masters  o'er." 

And  when  they  came  to  Adrian's  burgh, 

With  its  towers  so  smooth  and  high, 
"  Come  out,  come  out,  ye  Roman  knaves, 

And  see  your  lords  ride  by." 

But  when  they  came  to  the  long  long  walls 

That  stretch  from  sea  to  sea, 
That  old  old  Bait  let  down  his  chin, 

And  a  thoughtful  man  grew  he. 

"  Oh  oft  have  I  scoffed  at  brave  Fridigern, 

But  never  will  I  scoff  more, 
If  these  be  the  walls  which  kept  him  out 

From  the  Micklegard  there  on  the  shore." 

Then  out  there  came  the  great  Kaiser, 

With  twice  ten  thousand  men ; 
But  never  a  Thuring  was  coward  enough 

To  wish  himself  home  again. 

"  Bow  down,  thou  rebel,  old  Athanarich, 

And  beg  thy  life  this  day ; 
The  Kaiser  is  lord  of  all  the  world, 

And  who  dare  say  him  nay  ? " 


120  THE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG. 

"  I  never  came  out  of  Caucaland 

To  beg  for  less  nor  more  ; 
But  to  see  the  pride  of  the  great  Kaiser, 

In  his  Micklegard  here  by  the  shore. 

"  I  never  came  out  of  Caucaland 

To  bow  to  mortal  wight, 
But  to  shake  the  hand  of  the  great  Kaiser, 

And  God  defend  my  right." 

He  shook  his  hand,  that  cunning  Kaiser, 

And  he  kissed  him  courteouslie, 
And  he  has  ridden  with  Athanarich 

That  wonder-town  to  see. 

He  showed  him  his  walls  of  marble  white  — 

A  mile  o'erhead  they  shone  ; 
Quoth  the  Bait,  "  Who  would  leap  into  that  garden, 

King  Siegfried's  boots  must  own." 

He  showed  him  his  engines  of  arsmetrick 

And  his  wells  of  quenchless  flame, 
And  his  flying  rocks,  that  guarded  his  walls 

From  all  that  against  him  came. 

He  showed  him  his  temples  and  pillared  halls, 

And  his  streets  of  houses  high  ; 
And  his  watch-towers  tall,  where  his  star-gazers 

Sit  reading  the  signs  of  the  sky. 

He  showed  him  his  ships  with  their  hundred  oars, 

And  their  sides  like  a  castle  wall, 
That  fetch  home  the  plunder  of  all  the  world, 

At  the  Kaiser's  beck  and  call. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG.  121 

He  showed  him  all  nations  of  every  tongue 

That  are  bred  beneath  the  sun, 
How  they  flowed  together  in  Micklegard  street 

As  the  brooks  flow  all  into  one. 

He  showed  him  the  shops  of  the  china  ware, 

And  of  silk  and  sandal  also, 
And  he  showed  him  the  baths  and  the  waterpipes 

On  arches  aloft  that  go. 

He  showed  him  ostrich  and  unicorn, 

Ape,  lion,  and  tiger  keen ; 
And  elephants  wise  roared  "  Hail  Kaiser !  " 

As  though  they  had  Christians  been. 

He  showed  him  the  hoards  of  the  dragons  and  trolls, 

Rare  jewels  and  heaps  of  gold  — 
"  Hast  thou  seen,  in  all  thy  hundred  years, 

Such  as  these,  thou  king  so  old  ? " 

Now  that  cunning  Kaiser  was  a  scholar  wise, 

And  could  of  gramarye, 
And  he  cast  a  spell  on  that  old  old  Bait 

Till  lowly  and  meek  spake  he. 

"  Oh  oft  have  I  heard  of  the  Micklegard, 

What  I  held  for  chapmen's  lies ; 
But  now  do  I  know  of  the  Micklegard, 

By  the  sight  of  mine  own  eyes. 

"  Woden  in  Valhalla, 

But  thou  on  earth  art  God ; 
And  he  that  dare  withstand  thee,  Kaiser, 

On  his  own  head  lies  his  blood." 


122  THE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG. 

Then  out  and  spake  that  little  Baltung, 
Rode  at  the  king's  right  knee, 

Quoth  "  Fridigern  slew  false  Kaiser  Valens, 
And  he  died  like  you  or  me." 

"  And  who  art  thou,  thou  pretty  bold  boy, 
Rides  at  the  king's  right  knee  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  am  the  Baltung,  boy  Alaric, 
And  as  good  a  man  as  thee." 

*  As  good  as  me,  thou  pretty  bold  boy, 

With  down  upon  thy  chin  ? " 
"  Oh  a  spae-wife  laid  a  doom  on  me, 

The  best  of  thy  realm  to  win." 

"  If  thou  be  so  fierce,  thou  little  wolf  cub 

Or  ever  thy  teeth  be  grown ; 
Then  I  must  guard  my  two  young  sons 

Lest  they  should  lose  their  own." 

"  Oh,  it 's  I  will  guard  your  two  lither  lads, 
In  their  burgh  beside  the  sea, 

And  it 's  I  will  prove  true  man  to  them 
If  they  will  prove  true  to  me. 

"  But  it 's  you  must  warn  your  two  lither  lads, 

And  warn  them  bitterly, 
That  if  I  shall  find  them  two  false  Kaisers, 

High  hanged  they  both  shall  be." 

Now  they  are  gone  into  the  Kaiser's  palace 

To  eat  the  peacock  fine, 
And  they  are  gone  into  the  Kaiser's  palace 

To  drink  the  good  Greek  wine. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG.  123 

The  Kaiser  alone,  and  the  old  old  Bait, 

They  sat  at  the  cedar  board  ; 
And  round  them  served  on  the  bended  knee 

Full  many  a  Roman  lord. 

"  What  ails  thee,  what  ails  thee,  friend  Athanarich  ? 

What  makes  thee  look  so  pale  ?  " 
"  I  fear  I  am  poisoned,  thou  cunning  Kaiser, 

For  I  feel  my  heart-strings  fail. 

"  Oh  would  I  had  kept  that  great  great  oath 

I  swore  by  the  horse's  head, 
I  would  never  set  foot  on  Roman  ground 

Till  the  day  that  I  lay  dead. 

"  Oh  would  I  were  home  in  Caucaland, 

To  hear  my  harpers  play, 
And  to  drink  my  last  of  the  nut-brown  ale, 

While  I  gave  the  gold  rings  away. 

"  Oh  would  I  were  home  in  Caucaland, 

To  hear  the  Gothmen's  horn, 
And  watch  the  wagons,  and  brown  brood  mares 

And  the  tents  where  I  was  born. 

"  But  now  I  must  die  between  four  stone  walls 

In  Byzant  beside  the  sea  : 
And  as  thou  shalt  deal  with  my  little  Baltung, 

So  God  shall  deal  with  thee.  " 

The  Kaiser  he  purged  himself  with  oaths, 

And  he  buried  him  royally, 
And  he  set  on  his  barrow  an  idol  of  gold, 

Where  all  Romans  must  bow  the  knee. 


124  TIIE  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALTUNG. 

And  now  the  Goths  are  the  Kaiser's  men, 
And  guard  him  with  lance  and  sword, 

And  the  little  Baltung  is  his  sworn  son-at-arms, 
And  eats  at  the  Kaiser's  board. 

And  the  Kaiser's  two  sons  are  two  false  white  lads 

That  a  clerk  may  beat  with  cane. 
The  clerk  that  should  beat  that  little  Baltung 

Would  never  sing  mass  again. 

Oh  the  gates  of  Rome  they  are  steel  without, 

And  beaten  gold  within  : 
But  they  shall  fly  wide  to  the  little  Baltung 

With  the  down  upon  his  chin. 

Oh  the  fairest  flower  in  the  Kaiser's  garden 

Is  Rome  and  Italian  land  : 
But  it  all  shall  fall  to  the  little  Baltung 

When  he  shall  take  lance  in  hand. 

And  when  he  is  parting  the  plunder  of  Rome, 
He  shall  pay  for  this  song  of  mine, 

Neither  maiden  nor  land,  neither  jewel  nor  gold, 
But  one  cup  of  Italian  wine. 

EVERSLEY,   1864. 


EASTER    WEEK.  125 


ON   THE  DEATH   OF   LEOPOLD,  KING 
OF   THE   BELGIANS.1 

A  KING  is  dead  !     Another  master  mind 

Is  summoned  from  the  world-wide  council  hall. 

Ah,  for  some  seer,  to  say  what  lurks  behind  — 
To  read  the  mystic  writing  on  the  wall ! 

Be  still,  fond  man  :  nor  ask  thy  fate  to  know. 

Face  bravely  what  each  God-sent  moment  brings. 
Above  thee  rules  in  love,  through  weal  and  woe, 

Guiding  thy  kings  and  thee,  the  King  of  kings. 

WINDSOR  CASTLE,  November  10,  1865. 


EASTER   WEEK. 

WRITTEN   FOR  MUSIC   TO   BE  SUNG   AT  A   PARISH    INDUSTRIAL    EXHIBITION. 

SEE  the  land,  her  Easter  keeping, 

Rises  as  her  Maker  rose. 
Seeds,  so  long  in  darkness  sleeping, 

Burst  at  last  from  winter  snows. 
Earth  with  heaven  above  rejoices ; 

Fields  and  gardens  hail  the  spring; 
Shaughs  and  woodlands  ring  with  voices, 

While  the  wild  birds  build  and  sing. 

You,  to  whom  your  Maker  granted 
Powers  to  those  sweet  birds  unknown, 

1  Impromptu  lines  written  in  the  album  of  the  Crown  Princess  of  Germany. 


126  DRIFTING  AWAY. 


Use  the  craft  by  God  implanted  ; 

Use  the  reason  not  your  own. 
Here,  while  heaven  and  earth  rejoices, 

Each  his  Easter  tribute  bring  — 
Work  of  fingers,  chant  of  voices, 

Like  the  birds  who  build  and  sing. 

EVERSLEY,  1867. 


DRIFTING   AWAY. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THEY  drift  away.     Ah,  God  !  they  drift  forever. 
I  watch  the  stream  sweep  onward  to  the  sea, 
Like  some  old  battered  buoy  upon  a  roaring  river, 
Round  whom  the  tide-waifs  hang  —  then  drift  to  sea. 

I  watch  them  drift —  the  old  familiar  faces, 
Who  fished  and  rode  with  me,  by  stream  and  wold, 
Till  ghosts,  not  men,  fill  old  beloved  places, 
And,  ah  !  the  land  is  rank  \vith  churchyard  mould. 

I  watch  them  drift  —  the  youthful  aspirations, 
Shores,  landmarks,  beacons,  drift  alike. 

I  watch  them  drift  —  the  poets  and  the  statesmen  ; 
The  very  streams  run  upward  from  the  sea. 

Yet  overhead  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven 
Still  fades  to  night,  still  blazes  into  day. 

Ah,  God  !     My  God  !     Thou  wilt  not  drift  away ! 

November,  1867. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  I2/ 


CHRISTMAS   DAY. 

How  will  it  dawn,  the  coming  Christmas  Day? 
A  northern  Christmas,  such  as  pa'inters  love, 
And  kinsfolk,  shaking  hands  but  once  a  year, 
And  dames  who  tell  old  legends  by  the  fire  ? 
Red  sun,  blue  sky,  white  snow,  and  pearled  ice, 
Keen  ringing  air,  which  sets  the  blood  on  fire, 
And  makes  the  old  man  merry  with  the  young, 
Through  the  short  sunshine,  through  the  longer  night  ? 

Or  southern  Christmas,  dark  and  dank  with  mist, 
And  heavy  with  the  scent  of  steaming  leaves, 
And  rosebuds  mouldering  on  the  dripping  porch ; 
One  twilight,  without  rise  or  set  of  sun, 
Till  beetles  drone  along  the  hollow  lane, 
And  round  the  leafless  hawthorns,  flitting  bats 
Hawk  the  pale  moths  of  winter  ?     Welcome  then 
At  best,  the  flying  gleam,  the  flying  shower, 
The  rain-pools  glittering  on  the  long  white  roads, 
And  shadows  sweeping  on  from  down  to  down 
Before  the  salt  Atlantic  gale  :  yet  come 
In  whatsoever  garb,  or  gay,  or  sad, 
Come  fair,  come  foul,  'twill  still  be  Christmas  Day. 

How  will  it  dawn,  the  coming  Christmas  Day  ? 
To  sailors  lounging  on  the  lonely  deck  « 

Beneath  the  rushing  trade-wind  ?     Or  to  him, 
Who  by  some  noisome  harbor  of  the  East, 
Watches  swart  arms  roll  down  the  precious  bales, 
Spoils  of  the  tropic  forests  ;  year  by  year 
Amid  the  din  of  heathen  voices,  groaning 
Himself  half  heathen  ?     How  to  those  —  brave  hearts  ! 
Who  toil  with  laden  loins  and  sinking  stride 


128  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 


Beside  the  bitter  wells  of  treeless  sands 

Toward  the  peaks  which  flood  the  ancient  Nile, 

To  free  a  tyrant's  captives  ?     How  to  those  — 

New  patriarchs  of  the  new-found  underworld  — 

Who  stand,  like  Jacob,  on  the  virgin  lawns, 

And  count  their  flocks'  increase  ?     To  them  that  day 

Shall  dawn  in  glory,  and  solstitial  blaze 

Of  full  midsummer  sun  :  to  them  that  morn, 

Gay  flowers  beneath  their  feet,  gay  birds  aloft, 

Shall  tell  of  nought  but  summer  :  but  to  them, 

Ere  yet,  unwarned  by  carol  or  by  chime, 

They  spring  into  the  saddle,  thrills  may  come 

From  that  great  heart  of  Christendom  which  beats 

Round  all  the  worlds  ;  and  gracious  thoughts  of  youth  ; 

Of  steadfast  folk,  who  worship  God  at  home ; 

Of  wise  words,  learnt  beside  their  mothers'  knee ; 

Of  innocent  faces  upturned  once  again 

In  awe  and  joy  to  listen  to  the  tale 

Of  God  made  man,  and  in  a  manger  laid  — 

May  soften,  purify,  and  raise  the  soul 

From  selfish  cares,  and  growing  lust  of  gain, 

And  phantoms  of  this  dream  which  some  call  life 

Toward  the  eternal  facts  ;  for  here  or  there, 

Summer  or  winter,  'twill  be  Christmas  Day. 

Blest  day,  which  aye  reminds  us,  year  by  year, 
What  'tis  to  be  a  man  :  to  curb  and  spurn 
The  tyrant  in  us ;  that  ignobler  self 
Which  boasts,  not  loathes,  its  likeness  to  the  brute, 
And  owns  no  good  save  ease,  no  ill  save  pain, 
No  purpose,  save  its  share  in  that  wild  war 
In  which,  through  countless  ages,  living  things 
Compete  in  internecine  greed. —  Ah  God  ! 
Are  we  as  creeping  things,  which  have  no  lord  ? 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 


I29 


That  we  are  brute?,  great  God,  we  know  too  well  : 
Apes  daintier-featured  ;  silly  birds  who  flaunt 
Their  plumes  unheeding  of  the  fowler's  step ; 
Spiders,  who  catch  with  paper,  not  with  webs ; 
Tigers,  who  slay  with  cannon  and  sharp  steel, 
Instead  of  teeth  and  claws  ;  —  all  these  we  are. 
Are  we  no  more  than  these,  save  in  degree  1 
No  more  than  these ;  and  born  but  to  compete  — 
To  envy  and  devour,  like  beast  or  herb ; 
Mere  fools  of  nature  ;  puppets  of  strong  lusts, 
Taking  the  sword,  to  perish  with  the  sword 
Upon  the  universal  battle-field, 
Even  as  the  things  upon  the  moor  outside  ? 

The  heath  eats  up  green  grass  and  delicate  flowers, 
The  pine  eats  up  the  heath,  the  grub  the  pine, 
The  finch  the  grub,  the  hawk  the  silly  finch ; 
And  man,  the  mightiest  of  all  beasts  of  prey, 
Eats  what  he  lists ;  the  strong  eat  up  the  weak, 
The  many  eat  the  few;  great  nations,  small ; 
And  he  who  cometh  in  the  name  of  all  — 
He,  greediest,  triumphs  by  the  greed  of  all ; 
And,  armed  by  his  own  victims,  eats  up  all : 
While  ever  out  of  the  eternal  heavens 
Looks  patient  down  the  great  magnanimous  God, 
Who,  Maker  of  all  worlds,  did  sacrifice 
All  to  Himself.     Nay,  but  Himself  to  one ; 
Who  taught  mankind  on  that  first  Christmas  Day, 
What  't  was  to  be  a  man  ;  to  give,  not  take  , 
To  serve,  not  rule ;  to  nourish,  not  devour ; 
To  help,  not  crush ;  if  need,  to  die,  not  live. 

Oh  blessed  day,  which  givest  the  eternal  lie 
To  self,  and  sense,  and  all  the  brute  within ; 
Oh,  come  to  us,  amid  this  war  of  life  ; 
To  hall  and  hovel,  come ;  to  all  who  toil 


I3O  SEPTEMBER  21,  1870. 

In  senate,  shop,  or  study ;  and  to  those 
Who,  sundered  by  the  wastes  of  half  a  world, 
Ill-warned,  and  sorely  tempted,  ever  face 
Nature's  brute  powers,  and  men  unmanned  to  brutes  • 
Come  to  them,  blest  and  blessing,  Christmas  Day. 
Tell  them  once  more  the  tale  of  Bethlehem ; 
The  kneeling  shepherds,  and  the  Babe  Divine  : 
And  keep  them  men  indeed,  fair  Christmas  Day. 

EVERSLEY,    l868. 


SEPTEMBER  21,  iSyo.1 

SPEAK  low,  speak  little  :  who  may  sing 
While  yonder  cannon-thunders  boom  ? 

Watch,  shuddering,  what  each  day  may  bring : 
Nor  "pipe  amid  the  crack  of  doom/' 

And  yet  —  the  pines  sing  overhead, 

The  robins  by  the  alder-pool, 
The  bees  about  the  garden-bed, 

The  children  dancing  home  from  school. 

And  ever  at  the  loom  of  Birth 

The  mighty  Mother  weaves  and  sings : 

She  weaves  —  fresh  robes  for  mangled  earth; 
She  sings  —  fresh  hopes  for  desperate  things. 

And  thou,  too :  if  through  Nature's  calm 
Some  strain  of  music  touch  thine  ears, 
Accept  and  share  that  soothing  balm, 

And  sing,  though  choked  with  pitying  tears. 
EVERSLEY,  1870. 

1  Time  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war. 


THE  MANGO-TREE.  131 


THE   MANGO-TREE, 

HE  wiled  me  through  the  furzy  croft ; 

He  wiled  me  down  the  sandy  lane. 
He  told  his  boy's  love,  soft  and  oft, 

Until  I  told  him  mine  again. 

We  married,  and  we  sailed  the  main ; 

A  soldier,  and  a  soldier's  wife. 
We  marched  through  many  a  burning  plain ; 

We  sighed  for  many  a  gallant  life. 

But  his  —  God  kept  it  safe  from  harm. 

He  toiled,  and  dared,  and  earned  command ; 
And  those  three  stripes  upon  his  arm 

Were  more  to  me  than  gold  or  land. 

Sure  he  would  win  some  great  renown : 

Our  lives  were  strong,  our  hearts  were  high. 

One  night  the  fever  struck  him  down. 
I  sat,  and  stared,  and  saw  him  die. 

I  had  his  children  — one,  two,  three. 

One  week  I  had  them,  blithe  and  sound. 
The  next  —  beneath  this  mango-tree, 

By  him  in  barrack  burying-ground. 

I  sit  beneath  the  mango-shade  ; 

I  live  my  five  years'  life  all  o'er  — 
Round  yonder  stems  his  children  played; 

He  mounted  guard  at  yonder  door. 


132  THE  MANGO-TREE. 

'Tis  I,  not  they,  am  gone  and  dead. 

They  live  ;  they  know  ;  they  feel ;  they  see. 
Their  spirits  light  the  golden  shade 

Beneath  the  giant  mango-tree. 

All  things,  save  I,  are  full  of  life  : 
The  minas,  pluming  velvet  breasts ; 

The  monkeys,  in  their  foolish  strife  ; 

The  swooping  hawks,  the  swinging  nests ; 

The  lizards  basking  on  the  soil, 

The  butterflies  who  sun  their  wings ; 

The  bees  about  their  household  toil, 
They  live,  they  love,  the  blissful  things. 

Each  tender  purple  mango-shoot, 

That  folds  and  droops  so  bashful  down ; 

It  lives ;  it  sucks  some  hidden  root  ; 
It  rears  at  last  a  broad  green  crown. 

It  blossoms  ;   and  the  children  cry  — 
"  Watch  when  the  mango-apples  fall." 

It  lives  :  but  rootless,  fruitless,  I  — 
I  breath  and  dream  ;  —  and  that  is  all. 

Thus  am  I  dead  :  yet  cannot  die  : 
But  still  within  my  foolish  brain 

There  hangs  a  pale  blue  evening  sky ; 

A  furzy  croft ;  a  sandy  lane. 
1870. 


THE  PRIEST'S    HEART.  133 


THE   PRIESTS   HEART. 

IT  was  Sir  John,  the  fair  young  Priest, 

He  strode  up  off  the  strand  ; 
But  seven  fisher  maidens  he  left  behind 

All  dancing  hand  in  hand. 

He  came  unto  the  wise  wife's  house  : 

"  Now,  Mother,  to  prove  your  art ; 
To  charm  May  Carleton's  merry  blue  eyes 

Out  of  a  young  man's  heart." 

"  My  son,  you  went  for  a  holy  man, 

Whose  heart  was  set  on  high ; 
Go  sing  in  your  psalter,  and  read  in  your  books ; 

Man's  love  fleets  lightly  by." 

"  I  had  liever  to  talk  with  May  Carleton, 
Than  with  all  the  saints  in  Heaven 

I  had  liever  to  sit  by  May  Carleton 
Than  climb  the  spheres  seven. 

"I  have  watched  and  fasted,  early  and  late, 

I  have  prayed  to  all  above ; 
But  I  find  no  cure  save  churchyard  mould, 

For  the  pain  which  men  call  love." 

"  Now  Heaven  forefend  that  ill  grow  worse : 

Enough  that  ill  be  ill. 
I  know  of  a  spell  to  draw  May  Carleton, 

And  bend  her  to  your  will." 


134  "QU'EST  QU'IL  DIT." 

"  If  thou  didst  that  which  thou  canst  not  do, 

Wise  woman  though  thou  be, 
I  would  run  and  run  till  I  buried  myself 

In  the  surge  of  yonder  sea. 

"  Scathless  for  me  are  maid  and  wife, 

And  scathless  shall  they  bide. 
Yet  charm  me  May  Carleton's  eyes  from  the  heart 

That  aches  in  my  left  side." 

She  charmed  him  with  the  white  witchcraft, 

She  charmed  him  with  the  black, 
But  he  turned  his  fair  young  face  to  the  wall, 

Till  she  heard  his  heart-strings  crack. 

1870. 


"QU'EST   QU'IL   DIT."1 

ESPION  aile  de  la  jeune  amante 

De  1'ombre  des  palmiers  pourquoi  ce  cri  ? 

Laisse  en  paix  le  beau  gar£on  plaider  et  vain  ere  — 

Pourquoi,  pourquoi  demander  "  Qu'est  qu'il  clit  ?  " 

"  Qu'est  qu'il  dit  ?  "     Ce  que  tu  dis  toi-meme 
Chaque  mois  de  ce  printemps  eternel ; 
Ce  que  disent  les  papillons  qui  s'entre-baisent, 
Ce  que  dit  tout  bel  jeun  etre  a  toute  belle. 

Importun  ?     Attende  quelques  lustres  : 
Quand  les  souvenirs  Pemmeneront  ici  — 
Mere,  grand'mere,  pale,  lasse,  et  fidele, 
Demande  mais  doucement —  "  Et  le  vieillard, 

Qu'est  qu'il  dit  ?  " 
TRINIDAD,  January  10,  1870. 

l  The  Qu'est  qu'il  dit  is  a  Tropical  bird. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LA  BREA.          135 


THE   LEGEND   OF   LA    BREA.1 

DOWN  beside  the  loathly  Pitch  Lake, 

In  the  stately  Mondial,2 
Sat  an  ancient  Spanish  Indian, 

Peering  through  the  columns  tall. 

Watching  vainly  for  the  flashing 

Of  the  jewelled  colibris  ; 3 
Listening  vainly  for  their  humming 

Round  the  honey-blossomed  trees. 

"  Few,"  he  sighed,  "  they  come,  and  fewer, 

To  the  cocorite 4  bowers  ; 
Murdered,  madly,  through  the  forests 

Which  of  yore  were  theirs  —  and  ours." 

By  there  came  a  negro  hunter, 
Lithe  and  lusty,  sleek  and  strong, 

Rolling  round  his  sparkling  eyeballs, 
As  he  loped  and  lounged  along. 

Rusty  firelock  on  his  shoulder ; 

Rusty  cutlass  on  his  thigh  ; 
Never  jollier  British  subject 

Rollicked  underneath  the  sky. 

1  This  myth  about  the  famous  Pitch  Lake  of  Trinidad  was  told  almost  word 
for  word  to  a  M.  Joseph  by  an  aged  half-caste  Indian  who  went  by  the  name  of 
Senor   Trinidada.     The  manners  and  customs  which  the  ballad  describes,  and  the 
cruel  and  dangerous  destruction  of  the  beautiful  birds  of  Trinidad,  are  facts  which 
may  be  easily  verified  by  any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  visit  the  West  Indies. 

2  A  magnificent  wood  of  the  Maurit;a  Fanpalm,  on  the  south  shore  of  the  Pitch 
Lake.  8  Humming-birds.  4  Maximiliana  palms. 


136  THE  LEGEXD   OF  LA   BREA. 

British  law  to  give  him  safety, 
British  fleets  to  guard  his  shore, 

And  a  square  of  British  freehold  — 
He  had  all  we  have,  and  more. 

Fattening  through  the  endless  summer, 
Like  his  own  provision  ground, 

He  had  reached  the  summum  bonum 
Which  our  latest  wits  have  found. 

So  he  thought ;  and  in  his  hammock 
Gnawed  his  junk  of  sugar-cane, 

Toasted  plantains  at  the  fire-stick, 

Gnawed,  and  dozed,  and  gnawed  again. 

Had  a  wife  in  his  ajoupa1  — 
Or,  at  least,  what  did  instead ; 

Children,  too,  who  died  so  early, 
He  rd  no  need  to  earn  their  bread. 

Never  stole,  save  what  he  needed, 
From  the  Crown  woods  round  about ; 

Never  lied,  except  when  summoned  — 
Let  the  warden  find  him  out. 

Never  drank,  except  at  market ; 

Never  beat  his  sturdy  mate  ; 
She  could  hit  as  hard  as  he  could, 

And  had  just  as  hard  a  pate. 

Had  no  care  for  priest  nor  parson, 
Hope  of  heaven  nor  fear  of  hell ; 

And  in  all  his  views  of  nature 
Held  with  Comte  and  Peter  Bell. 

1  Hut  of  timber  and  palm-leaves. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  1^    BREA.  137 

Healthy,  happy,  silly,  kindly, 

Neither  care  nor  toil  had  he, 
Save  to  work  an  hour  at  sunrise, 

And  then  hunt  the  colibri. 

Not  a  bad  man  ;  not  a  good  man  : 

Scarce  a  man  at  all,  one  fears, 
If  the  Man  be  that  within  us 

Which  is  born  of  fire  and  tears. 

Round  the  palm-stems,  round  the  creepers, 

Flashed  a  feathered  jewel  past, 
Ruby -crested,  topaz-throated, 

Plucked  the  cocorite  bast, 

Plucked  the  fallen  ceiba-cotton,1 

Whirred  away  to  build  his  nest, 
Hung  at  last,  with  happy  humming, 

Round  some  flower  he  fancied  best. 

Up  then  went  the  rusty  muzzle, 

"  Dat  de  tenth  I  shot  to-day  :  " 
But  out  sprang  the  Indian  shouting, 

Balked  the  negro  of  his  prey. 

"  Eh,  you  Senor  Trinidada  ! 

What  dis  new  ondacent  plan  ? 
Spoil  a  genl'man's  chance  ob  shooting  ? 

I  as  good  as  any  man. 

"  Dese  not  your  woods  ;  dese  de  Queen's  woods  : 

You  seem  not  know  whar  you  ar, 
Gibbin'  yuself  dese  buckra  airs  here, 

You  black  Indian  Papist !     Dar !  " 

1  From  the  Eriodcndron,  or  giant  silk-cotton. 


138  THE  LJLGEND   OF  LA   BREA. 

Stately,  courteous,  stood  the  Indian  ; 

Pointed  through  the  palm-tree  shade  : 
"Does  the  gentleman  of  color 

Know  how  yon  Pitch  Lake  was  made  ? " 

Grinned  the  negro,  grinned  and  trembled  — 
Through  his  nerves  a  shadow  ran  — 

Saw  a  snake-like  eye  that  held  him ; 
Saw  —  he  'd  met  an  Obeah  man. 

Saw  a  fetish  —  such  a  bottle  — 

Buried  at  his  cottage  door; 
Toad  and  spider,  dirty  water, 

Rusty  nails,  and  nine  charms  more. 

Saw  in  vision  such  a  cock's  head 
In  the  path  —  and  it  was  white  ! 

Saw  Brinvilliers1  in  his  pottage  : 

Faltered,  cold  and  damp  with  fright. 

Fearful  is  the  chance  of  poison  : 
Fearful,  too,  the  great  unknown  : 

Magic  brings  some  positivists 
Humbly  on  their  marrow-bone. 

Like  the  wedding-guest  enchanted, 
There  he  stood,  a  trembling  cur ; 

While  the  Indian  told  his  story, 
Like  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

Told  how — "Once  that  loathly  Pitch  Lake 
Was  a  garden  bright  and  fair; 

How  the  Chaymas  off  the  mainland 
Built  their  palm  ajoupas  there. 

1  Spigelia  anthelmia,  a  too  well-known  poison-plant. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LA  BREA.          139 

"  How  they  throve,  and  how  they  fattened, 

Hale  and  happy,  safe  and  strong ; 
Passed  the  lifelong  days  in  feasting ; 

Passed  the  nights  in  dance  and  song. 

"  Till  they  cruel  grew,  and  wanton  : 

Till  they  killed  the  colibris. 
Then  outspake  the  great  Good  Spirit, 

Who  can  see  through  all  the  trees. 

"  Said  — '  And  what  have  I  not  sent  you, 

Wanton  Chaymas,  many  a  year  ? 
Lapp,1  agouti,2  cachicame,3 

Quenc  4  and  guazu-pita  deer. 

" '  Fish  I  sent  you,  sent  you  turtle, 

Chip-chip,6  conch,  flamingo  red, 
Woodland  paui,6  horned  screamer,7 

And  blue  rainier8  overhead. 

"'Plums  from  balata9  and  mombin10 

Tania,11  manioc,12  water-vine  ; ls 
Let  you  fell  my  slim  manacques,14 

Tap  my  sweet  moriche  wine.15 

"  Sent  rich  plantains,16  food  of  angels  ; 

Rich  ananas,17  food  of  kings  ; 
Grudged  you  none  of  all  my  treasures  : 

Save  these  lovely  useless  things.' 


1  Coelogenys  Paca. 
2  Wild  cavy. 
3  Armadillo. 
4  Peccary  hog. 
5  Trigonia. 
6  Penelope. 

7  Palamedea. 
8  Dove. 
9  Mimusops. 
10  Spondias. 
11  An  esculent  Arum. 
12  Jatropha  manihot,  "  Cassava." 

13  Vitis  Caribaea. 
14  Euterpe,  "mountain 
cabbage"  palm. 
15  Mauritia  palm. 
16  Musa. 
17  Pine-apple. 

I4O          THE  LEGEND  OF  LA  BREA. 

"  But  the  Chaymas'  ears  were  deafened  ; 

Blind  their  eyes,  and  could  not  see 
How  a  blissful  Indian's  spirit 

Lived  in  every  colibri. 

"  Lived,  forgetting  toil  and  sorrow, 

Ever  fair  and  ever  new  ; 
Whirring  round  the  dear  old  woodland, 

Feeding  on  the  honey-dew. 

"Till  one  evening  roared  the  earthquake  : 
Monkeys  howled,  and  parrots  screamed 

And  the  Guaraons  at  morning 

Gathered  here,  as  men  who  dreamed. 

"  Sunk  were  gardens,  sunk  ajoupas ; 

Hut  and  hammock,  man  and  hound  : 
And  above  the  Chayma  village 

Boiled  with  pitch  the  cursed  ground. 

"  Full,  and  too  full  ;  safe,  and  too  safe; 

Negro  man,  take  care,  take  care. 
He  that  wantons  with  God's  bounties 

Of  God's  wrath  had  best  beware. 

"  For  the  saucy,  reckless,  heartless, 
Evil  days  are  sure  in  store. 

You  may  see  the  Negro  sinking 
As  the  Chayma  sank  of  yore." 

Loudly  laughed  that  stalwart  hunter  — 

'•  Eh,  what  superstitious  talk  ! 
Nyam l  am  nyam,  an'  maney  maney ; 
Food. 


HYMN.  141 


Birds  am  birds,  like  park  am  park  ; 

An'  dere  's  twenty  thousand  birdskins 

Ardered  jes'  now  fram  New  Yark." 

EVERSLEY,  1870. 


HYMN.1 

ACCEPT  this  building,  gracious  Lord, 

No  temple  though  it  be  ; 
We  raised  it  for  our  suffering  kin, 

And  so,  Good  Lord,  for  Thee. 

Accept  our  little  gift,  and  give 
To  all  who  here  may  dwell, 
The  will  and  power  to  do  their  work, 
Or  bear  their  sorrows  well. 

From  Thee  all  skill  and  science  flow ; 

All  pity,  care,  and  love, 
A.11  calm  and  courage,  faith  and  hope, 

Oh !  pour  them  from  above. 

And  part  them,  Lord,  to  each  and  all, 

As  each  and  all  shall  need, 
To  rise  like  incense,  each  to  Thee 

In  noble  thought  and  deed. 

And  hasten,  Lord  that  perfect  day, 
When  pain  and  death  shall  cease ; 

And  Thy  just  rule  shall  fill  the  earth, 
With  health,  and  light,  and  peace. 

1  Sung  by  1000  School  Children  at  the  Opening  of  the  New  Wing  of  the  Chil- 
dren's Hospital,  Birmingham. 


142  THE  DELECTABLE  DAY. 

Whenever  blue  the  sky  shall  gleam, 
And  ever  green  the  sod  ; 

And  man's  rude  work  deface  no  more, 
The  Paradise  of  God. 

EVERSLEY,  1870. 


THE   DELECTABLE   DAY. 

THE  boy  on  the  famous  gray  pony, 
Just  bidding  good-bye  at  the  door. 

Plucking  up  maiden  heart  for  the  fences 
Where  his  brother  won  honor  of  yore. 

The  walk  to  "  the  Meet "  with  fair  children, 

And  women  as  gentle  as  gay, — 
Ah  !  how  do  we  male  hogs  in  armor 

Deserve  such  companions  as  they  ? 

The  afternoon's  wander  to  windward, 
To  meet  the  dear  boy  coming  back 

And  to  catch,  down  the  turns  of  the  valley. 
The  last  weary  chime  of  the  pack. 

The  climb  homeward  by  park  and  by  moorland, 

And  through  the  fir  forests  again, 
While  the  south-west  wind  roars  in  the  gloaming 

Like  an  ocean  of  seething  champagne. 

And  at  night  the  septette  of  Beethoven, 
And  the  grandmother  by  in  her  chair, 

And  the  foot  of  all  feet  on  the  sofa 
Beating  delicate  time  to  the  air. 


JUVENTUS  MUNDL  143 

Ah,  God  !  a  poor  soul  can  but  thank  Thee 

For  such  a  delectable  day  ! 
Though  the  fury,  the  fool,  and  the  swindler, 

To-morrow  again  have  their  way  ! 

EVERSLEV,  6th  November,  1872. 


JUVENTUS   MUNDI. 

LIST  a  tale  a  fairy  sent  us 

Fresh  from  dear  Mundi  Juventus. 

When  Love  and  all  the  world  was  young, 

And  birds  conversed  as  well  as  sung ; 

And  men  still  faced  this  fair  creation 

With  humor,  heart,  imagination. 

Who  come  hither  from  Morocco 

Every  spring  on  the  sirocco  ? 

In  russet  she,  and  he  in  yellow, 

Singing  ever  clear  and  mellow, 

'•  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  you,  sweet  you, 

Did  he  beat  you  ?     Did  he  beat  you  ?  " 

Phyllopneustes  wise  folk  call  them, 

But  don't  know  what  did  befall  them, 

Why  they  ever  thought  of  coming 

All  that  way  to  hear  gnats  humming, 

Why  they  built  not  nests  but  houses, 

Like  the  bumble-bees  and  mousies. 

Nor  how  little  birds  got  wings, 

Nor  what  't  is  the  small  cock  sings  — 

How  should  they  know  —  stupid  fogies? 

They  dare  n't  even  believe  in  bogies. 

Once  they  were  a  girl  and  boy, 

Each  the  other's  life  and  joy. 


144  JUVENTUS  MUNDT. 

He  a  Daphnis,  she  a  Chloe. 

Only  they  were  brown,  not  snowy, 

Till  an  Arab  found  them  playing 

Far  beyond  the  Atlas  straying, 

Tied  the  helpless  things  together, 

Drove  them  in  the  burning  weather, 

In  his  slave-gang  many  a  league, 

Till  they  dropped  from  wild  fatigue. 

Up  he  caught  his  whip  of  hide, 

Lashed  each  soft  brown  back  and  side 

Till  their  little  brains  were  burst 

With  sharp  pain,  and  heat,  and  thirst. 

Over  her  the  poor  boy  lay, 

Tried  to  keep  the  blows  away, 

Till  they  stiffened  into  clay, 

And  the  ruffian  rode  away  : 

Swooping  o'er  the  tainted  ground, 

Carrion  vultures  gathered  round, 

And  the  gaunt  hyenas  ran 

Tracking  up  the  caravan 

But —  ah,  wonder  !  that  was  gone 

Which  they  meant  to  feast  upon. 

And,  for  each,  a  yellow  wren, 

One  a  cock,  and  one  a  hen, 

Sweetly  warbling,  flitted  forth 

O'er  the  desert  toward  the  north. 

But  a  shade  of  bygone  sorrow, 

Like  a  dream  upon  the  morrow, 

Round  his  tiny  brainlet  clinging, 

Sets  the  wee  cock  ever  singing, 

"  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  you,  sweet  you, 

Did  he  beat  you  ?     Did  he  beat  you  ? " 

Vultures  croaked,  and  hopped  and  flopped, 

But  their  evening  meal  was  stopped. 


VALENTINE'S  DAY.  .  145 

And  the  gaunt  hyenas  foul 
Sat  down  on  their  tails  to  howl. 
Northward  towards  the  cool  spring  weather, 
Those  two  wrens  fled  on  together 
On  to  England  o'er  the  sea, 
Where  all  folks  alike  are  free. 
There  they  built  a  cabin,  wattled 
Like  the  huts  where  first  they  prattled, 
Hatched  and  fed,  as  safe  as  may  be, 
Many  a  tiny  feathered  baby. 
But  in  autumn  south  they  go 
Past  the  Straits  and  Atlas'  snow, 
Over  desert,  over  mountain, 
To  the  palms  beside  the  fountain, 
Where,  when  once  they  lived  before,  he 
Told  her  first  the  old,  old  story. 
"  What  do  the  doves  say  ?     Curuck-Coo, 
You  love  me  and  I  love  you." 
1872. 


VALENTINE'S   DAY. 

OH  !  I  wish  I  were  a  tiny  browny  bird  from  out  the  south, 
Settled  among  the  alder-holts,  and  twittering  by  the  stream ; 

I  would  put  my  tiny  tail  down,  and  put  up  my  tiny  mouth, 
And  sing  my  tiny  life  away  in  one  melodious  dream. 

I  would  sing  about  the  blossoms,  and  the  sunshine  and  the  sky, 
And  the  tiny  wife  I  mean  to  have  in  such  a  cosy  nest ; 

And  if  some  one  came  and  shot  me  dead,  why  then  I  could 

but  die, 
With  my  tiny  life  and  tiny  song  just  ended  at  their  best. 

EVERSLEY,  1873. 


146  BALLAD. 


BALLAD. 

LORRAINE,  LORRAINE,  LORREE. 
I. 

"ARE  you  ready  for  your  steeple-chase,  Lorraine,  Lorraine, 

Lorree  ? 

Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Baree. 
You  're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
You  're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  for  all  the  world  to  see, 
To  keep  him  straight,  and  keep  him  first,  and  win  the  run  for 

me. 
Barum,  Barum,"  etc. 

2. 

She   clasped  her  new-born  baby,  poor   Lorraine,   Lorraine, 

Lorree, 

"  I  cannot  ride  Vindictive,  as  any  man  might  see, 
And  I  will  not  ride  Vindictive,  with  this  baby  on  my  knee ; 
He  's  killed  a  boy,  he 's  killed  a  man,  and  why  must  he  kill 

me?" 

3- 

"  Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree, 
Unless  you  ride  Vindictive  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and  win  the  blank  for 

me, 
It 's  you  may  keep  your  baby,  for  you  '11  get  no  keep  from  me." 

4- 
"  That  husbands   could   be   cruel,"  said  Lorraine,  Lorraine, 

Lorree, 
"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I  have  known  for  seasons 

three ; 


BALLAD.  147 


But  oh !  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries  for  me, 

And  be  killed  across  a  fence  at  last  for  all  the  world  to  see ! " 


5- 
She  mastered  young  Vindictive  —  Oh!  the  gallant  lass  was 

she. 
And  kept  him  straight  and  won  the  race  as  near  as  near  could 

be; 

But  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  against  a  pollard  willow  tree, 
Oh !  he  killed  her  at  the  brook,  the  brute,  for  all  the  world 

to  see, 
And  no  one  but  the  baby  cried  for  poor  Lorraine,  Lorree. 

Last  poem  written  in  illness. 

COLORADO,  U.  S.  A.,  June,  1874. 


THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY. 


THE   SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THE  story  which  I  have  here  put  into  a  dramatic  form  is  one 
familiar  to  Romanists,  and  perfectly  and  circumstantially 
authenticated.  Abridged  versions  of  it,  carefully  softened 
and  sentimentalized,  may  be  read  in  any  Romish  collection 
of  Lives  of  the  Saints.  An  enlarged  edition  has  been 
published  in  France,  I  believe  by  Count  Montalembert,  and 
translated,  with  illustrations,  by  an  English  gentleman,  which 
admits  certain  miraculous  legends,  of  later  date,  and,  like  other 
prodigies,  worthless  to  the  student  of  human  character.  From 
consulting  this  work  I  have  hitherto  abstained,  in  order  that 
I  might  draw  my  facts  and  opinions,  entire  and  unbiassed, 
from  the  original  Biography  of  Elizabeth,  by  Dietrich  of 
Appolcl,  her  contemporary,  as  given  entire  by  Canisius. 

Dietrich  was  born  in  Thuringia,  near  the  scene  of  Eliza- 
beth's labors,  a  few  years  before  her  death  ;  had  conversed 
with  those  who  had  seen  her,  and  calls  to  witness  "  God  and 
the  elect  angels/'  that  he  had  inserted  nothing  but  what  he 
had  either  understood  from  religious  and  veracious  persons, 
or  read  in  approved  writings,  viz.  "  The  Book  of  the  Sayings 
of  Elizabeth's  Four  Ladies  (Guta,  Isentrudis,  and  two  others}  "  ; 
" The  Letter  which  Conrad  of  Marpurg,  her  Director,  wrote  to 
Pope  Gregory  the  Ninth  "  (these  two  documents  still  exist) ; 


152  THE  SAfNT'S  TRAGEDY. 

"  The  Sermon  of  Otto  "  (de  Online  Pradic},  which  begins  thus  : 
"  MuUerem  fortcm . " 

"Not  satisfied  with  these,"  he  "visited  monasteries,  castles, 
and  towns,  interrogated  the  most  aged  and  veracious  persons, 
and  wrote  letters,  seeking  for  completeness  and  truth  in  all 
things;  "  and  thus  composed  his  biography,  from  which  that 
in  Surius  (Ada  Sanctorum)  Jacobus  de  Voragine,  Alban 
Butler,  and  all  others  which  I  have  seen,  are  copied  with  a 
very  few  additions  and  many  prudent  omissions. 

Wishing  to  adhere  strictly  to  historical  truth,  I  have 
followed  the  received  account,  not  only  in  the  incidents,  but 
often  in  the  language  which  it  attributes  to  its  various  charac- 
ters ;  and  have  given  in  the  Notes  all  necessary  references  to 
the  biography  in  Canisius'  collection.  My  part  has  therefore 
been  merely  to  show  how  the  conduct  of  my  heroine  was  not 
only  possible,  but  to  a  certain  degree  necessary,  for  a  character 
of  earnestness  and  piety  such  as  hers,  working  under  the  influ- 
ences of  the  Middle  Age. 

In  deducing  fairly,  from  the  phenomena  of  her  life,  the  char- 
acter of  Elizabeth,  she  necessarily  became  a  type  of  two  great 
mental  struggles  of  the  Middle  Age  ;  first,  of  that  between 
Scriptural  or  unconscious,  and  Popish  or  conscious,  purity:  in 
a  word,  between  innocence  and  prudery  ;  next,  of  the  struggle 
between  healthy  human  affection,  and  the  Manichean  contempt 
with  which  a  celibate  clergy  would  have  all  men  regard 
the  names  of  husband,  wife,  and  parent.  To  exhibit  this 
latter  falsehood  in  its  miserable  consequences,  when  received 
into  a  heart  of  insight  and  determination  sufficient  to  follow 
out  all  belief  to  its  ultimate  practice,  is  the  main  object  of  my 
Poem.  That  a  most  degrading  and  agonizing  contradiction 
on  these  points  must  have  existed  in  the  mind  of  Elizabeth, 
and  of  all  who  with  similar  characters  shall  have  found  them- 
selves under  similar  influences,  is  a  necessity  that  must  be 
evident  to  all  who  know  anything  of  the  deeper  affections  of 


INTRODUCTION.  153 


men.  In  the  idea  of  a  married  Romish  saint,  these  miseries 
should  follow  logically  from  the  Romish  view  of  human 
relations.  In  Elizabeth's  case  their  existence  is  proved 
equally  logically  from  the  acknowledged  facts  of  her  conduct. 

I  may  here  observe,  that  if  I  have  in  no  case  made  her 
allude  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  exhibited  the  sense  of  infinite 
duty  and  loyalty  to  Christ  alone,  as  the  mainspring  of  all  her 
noblest  deeds,  it  is  merely  in  accordance  with  Dietrich's 
biography.  The  omission  of  all  Martolatry  is  remarkable. 
My  business  is  to  copy  that  omission,  as  I  should  in  the 
opposite  case  have  copied  the  introduction  of  Virgin-worship 
into  the  original  tale.  The  business  of  those  who  make  Mary, 
to  women  especially,  the  complete  substitute  for  the  Saviour 
—  I  had  almost  said,  for  all  Three  Persons  of  the  Trinity  — 
is  to  explain,  if  they  can,  her  non-appearance  in  this  case. 

Lewis,  again,  I  have  drawn  as  I  found  him,  possessed  of 
all  virtues  but  those  of  action  ;  in  knowledge,  in  moral 
courage,  in  spiritual  attainment,  infinitely  inferior  to  his  wife, 
and  depending  on  her  to  be  taught  to  pray;  giving  her  higher 
faculties  nothing  to  rest  on  in  himself,  and  leaving  the  noblest 
offices  of  a  husband  to  be  supplied  by  a  spiritual  director. 
He  thus  becomes  a  type  of  the  husbands  of  the  Middle  Age, 
and  of  the  woman-worship  of  chivalry.  Woman-worship, 
"the  honor  due  to  the  weaker  vessel,"  is  indeed  of  God,  and 
woe  to  the  nation  and  to  the  man  in  whom  it  dies.  But  in 
the  Middle  Age,  this  feeling  had  no  religious  root,  by  which 
it  could  connect  itself  rationally,  either  with  actual  wedlock 
or  with  the  noble  yearnings  of  men's  spirits,  and  it  therefore 
could  not  but  die  clown  into  a  semi-sensual  dream  of  female- 
saint-worship,  or  fantastic  idolatry  of  mere  physical  beauty, 
leaving  the  women  themselves  an  easy  prey  to  the  intellectual 
allurements  of  the  more  educated  and  subtle  priesthood. 

In  Conrad's  case,  again,  I  have  fancied  that  I  discover  in 
the  various  notices  of  his  life  a  noble  nature  warped  and 


154  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 

blinded  by  its  unnatural  exclusions  from  those  family  ties 
through  which  we  first  discern  or  describe  God  and  our  rela- 
tions to  Him,  and  forced  to  concentrate  his  whole  faculties  in 
the  service,  not  so  much  of  a  God  of  Truth  as  of  a  Catholic 
system.  In  his  character  will  be  found,  I  hope,  some  impli- 
cit apology  for  the  failings  of  such  truly  great  men  as  Dunstan, 
Becket,  and  Dominic,  and  of  many  more  whom,  if  we  hate, 
we  shall  never  understand,  while  we  shall  be  but  too  likely, 
in  our  own  way,  to  copy  them. 

Walter  of  Varila,  a  more  fictitious  character,  represents  the 
"healthy  animalism"  of  the  Teutonic  mind,  with  its  mixture 
of  deep  earnestness  and  hearty  merriment.  His  dislike  of 
priestly  sentimentalities  is  no  anachronism.  Even  in  his  day? 
a  noble  lay-religion,  founded  on  faith  in  the  divine  and  uni- 
versal symbolism  of  humanity  and  nature,  was  gradually 
arising,  and  venting  itself,  from  time  to  time,  as  I  conceive, 
through  many  most  unsuspected  channels,  through  chivalry, 
through  the  minne-singers,  through  the  lay  inventors,  or 
rather  importers,  of  pointed  architecture,  through  the  German 
school  of  painting,  through  the  politics  of  the  free  towns,  till 
it  attained  complete  freedom  in  Luther  and  his  associate 
reformers. 

For  my  fantastic  quotations  of  Scripture,  if  they  shall  be 
deemed  irreverent,  I  can  only  say,  that  they  were  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  from  prince  to  peasant  —  that  there  is  scarcely 
one  of  them  with  which  I  have  not  actually  met  in  the  writings 
of  the  period  —  that  those  writings  abound  with  misuse  of 
Scripture,  far  more  coarse,  arbitrary,  and  ridiculous,  than  any 
which  I  have  dared  to  insert  —  that  I  had  no  right  to  omit  so 
radical  a  characteristic  of  the  Middle  Age. 

For  the  more  coarse  and  homely  passages  with  which  the 
drama  is  interspersed,  I  must  make  the  same  apology.  I  put 
them  there  because  they  were  there — because  the  Middle 
Age  was,  in  the  gross,  a  coarse,  barbarous,  and  profligate  age 


INTRODUCTION.  155 


—  because  it  was  necessary,  in  order  to  bring  out  fairly  the 
beauty  of  the  central  character,  to  show  "  the  crooked  and 
perverse  generation  "  in  which  she  was  "  a  child  of  God  with- 
out rebuke."  It  was,  in  fact,  the  very  ferocity  and  foulness 
of  the  time  which,  by  a  natural  revulsion,  called  forth  at  the 
same  time  the  Apostolic  holiness  and  the  Manichean  asceti- 
cism of  the  Mediaeval  Saints.  The  world  was  so  bad  that,  to 
be  Saints  at  all,  they  were  compelled  to  go  out  of  the  world. 
It  was  necessary,  moreover,  in  depicting  the  poor  man's 
patroness,  to  show  the  material  on  which  she  worked;  and 
those  who  know  the  poor,  know  also  that  we  can  no  more 
judge  truly  of  their  characters  in  the  presence  of  their  bene- 
factors, than  we  can  tell  by  seeing  clay  in  the  potter's  hands 
what  it  was  in  its  native  pit.  These  scenes  have,  therefore, 
been  laid  principally  in  Elizabeth's  absence,  in  order  to 
preserve  their  only  use  and  meaning. 

So  rough  and  common  a  life-picture  of  the  Middle  Age  will, 
I  am  afraid,  whether  faithful  or  not,  be  far  from  acceptable 
to  those  who  take  their  notions  of  that  period  principally  from 
such  exquisite  dreams  as  the  fictions  of  Fouque,  and  of 
certain  moderns  whose  graceful  minds,  like  some  enchanted 

well, 

In  whose  calm  depths  the  pure  and  beautiful 
Alone  are  mirrored, 

are,  on  account  of  their  very  sweetness  and  simplicity,  singu- 
larly unfitted  to  convey  any  true  likeness  of  the  coarse  and 
stormy  Middle  Age.  I  have  been  already  accused,  by 
others  than  Romanists,  of  profaning  this  whole  subject  —  i.e. 
of  telling  the  whole  truth,  pleasant  or  not,  about  it.  But 
really,  time  enough  has  been  lost  in  ignorant  abuse  of  that 
period,  and  time  enough  also,  lately,  in  blind  adoration  of  it. 
When  shall  we  learn  to  see  it  as  it  was  ?  —  the  dawning  man- 
hood of  Europe  —  rich  with  all  the  tenderness,  the  simplicity, 
the  enthusiasm  of  youth  —  but  also  darkened,  alas  !  with  its 


156  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 

full  share  of  youth's  precipitance  and  extravagance,  fierce 
passions  and  blind  self-will  —  its  virtues  and  its  vices  colossal, 
and,  for  that  very  reason,  always  haunted  by  the  twin-imp  of 
the  colossal  —  the  caricatured. 

Lastly,  the  many  miraculous  stories  which  the  biographer 
of  Elizabeth  relates  of  her  I  had  no  right,  for  the  sake  of 
truth,  to  interweave  in  the  plot,  while  it  was  necessary  to 
indicate  at  least  their  existence.  I  have,  therefore,  put  such 
of  them  as  seemed  least  absurd  into  the  mouth  of  Conrad,  to 
•whom,  in  fact,  they  owre  their  original  publication,  and  have 
done  so,  as  I  hope,  not  without  a  just  ethical  purpose. 

Such  was  my  idea :  of  the  inconsistencies  and  shortcomings 
of  this  its  realization,  no  one  can  ever  be  so  painfully  sensible 
as  I  am  already  myself.  If,  however,  this  book  shall  cause 
one  Englishman  honestly  to  ask  himself,  "  I,  as  a  Protestant, 
have  been  accustomed  to  assert  the  purity  and  dignity  of  the 
offices  of  husband,  wife,  and  parent.  Have  I  ever  examined 
the  grounds  of  my  own  assertion  ?  Do  I  believe  them  to  be 
as  callings  from  God,  spiritual,  sacramental,  divine,  eternal  ? 
Or  am  I  at  heart  regarding  and  using  them,  like  the  Papist, 
merely  as  heaven's  indulgences  to  the  infirmities  of  fallen 
man  ? "  —  then  will  my  book  have  done  its  work. 

If,  again,  it  shall  deter  one  young  man  from  the  example  of 
those  miserable  dilettanti,  who  in  books  and  sermons  are 
whimpering  meagre  second-hand  praises  of  celibacy  —  depre- 
ciating as  carnal  and  degrading  those  family  ties  to  which 
they  owe  their  own  existence,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  which 
they  themselves  all  the  while  unblushingly  indulge  —  insult- 
ing thus  their  own  wives  and  mothers  —  nibbling  ignorantly 
at  the  very  root  of  that  household  purity  which  constitutes 
the  distinctive  superiority  of  Protestant  over  Popish  nations 
—  again  my  book  will  have  done  its  work. 

If,  lastly,  it  shall  awaken  one  pious  Protestant  to  recognize, 
in  some,  at  least,  of  the  Saints  of  the  Middle  Age,  beings  not 


INTRODUCTION.  157 


only  of  the  same  passions,  but  of  the  same  Lord,  the  same 
faith,  the  same  baptism,  as  themselves,  Protestants,  not  the 
less  deep  and  true,  because  utterly  unconscious  and  practical 
—  mighty  witnesses  against  the  two  antichrists  of  their  age  — 
the  tyranny  of  feudal  caste,  and  the  phantoms  which  Popery 
substitutes  for  the  living  Christ  —  then  also  will  my  little 
book  indeed  have  done  its  work. 

C.  K. 

1848. 


CHARACTERS. 

ELIZABETH,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Hungary. 

LEWIS,  Landgrave  of  Thuringia,  betrothed  to  her  in  childhood. 

HENRY,  brother  of  Lewis. 

WALTER  of  Varila, 

RUDOLF  the  Cupbearer, 


HARTWIG  of  Erba, 

COUNT  HUGO, 

COUNT  OF  SAYM,  etc. 

CONRAD  of  Marpurg,  a  Monk,  the  Pope's  Commissioner  for  the  suppression 

of  heresy. 

GERARD,  his  Chaplain. 

BISHOP  OF  BAMBERG,  uncle  of  Elizabeth,  etc.,  etc. 
SOPHIA,  Dowager  Landgravine. 
AGNES,  her  daughter,  sister  of  Lewis. 
ISENTRUDIS,  Elizabeths  nurse. 
GUT  A,  her  favorite  maiden. 

Etc.  etc.  etc. 


The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Eisenach,  and  the  Wartburg ;  changing 
afterwards  to  Bamberg,  and  finally  to  Marpurg. 


PROEM. 

(EPIMETHEUS.) 

i. 

WAKE  again,  Teutonic  Father-ages, 
Speak  again,  beloved  primaeval  creeds ; 

Flash  ancestral  spirit  from  your  pages, 
Wake  the  greedy  age  to  noble  deeds. 

ii. 

Tell  us,  how  of  old  our  saintly  mothers 

Schooled  themselves  by  vigil,  fast,  and  prayer, 

Learnt  to  love  as  Jesus  loved  before  them, 
While  they  bore  the  cross  which  poor  men  bear. 

in. 

Tell  us  how  our  stout  crusading  fathers 

Fought  and  died  for  God,  and  not  for  gold ; 

Let  their  love,  their  faith,  their  boyish  daring, 
Distance-mellowed,  gild  the  days  of  old. 

IV. 

Tell  us  how  the  sexless  workers,  thronging, 
Angel-tended,  round  the  the  convent  doors, 

Wrought  to  Christian  faith  and  holy  order 
Savage  hearts  alike  and  barren  moors. 

v. 

Ye  who  build  the  churches  where  we  worship, 
Ye  who  framed  the  laws  by  which  we  move, 

Fathers,  long  belied,  and  long  forsaken, 
Oh !  forgive  the  children  of  your  love  ! 


160  PROEM. 


(PROMETHEUS.) 


Speak !    but  ask  us  not  to  be  as  ye  were ! 

All  but  God  is  changing  day  by  day. 
He  who  breathes  on  man  the  plastic  spirit 

Bids  us  mould  ourselves  its  robe  of  clay. 

n. 

Old  anarchic  floods  of  revolution, 
Drowning  ill  and  good  alike  in  night, 

Sink,  and  bare  the  wrecks  of  ancient  labor, 
Fossil-teeming,  to  the  searching  light. 


There  will  we  find  laws,  which  shall  interpret, 
Through  the  simpler  past,  existing  life  ; 

Delving  up  from  mines  and  fairy  caverns 
Charmed  blades,  to  cut  the  age's  strife. 

IV. 

What  though  fogs  may  stream  from  draining  waters  ? 

We  will  till  the  clays  to  mellow  loam ; 
Wake  the  graveyard  of  our  fathers'  spirits ; 

Clothe  its  crumbling  mounds  with  blade  and  bloom. 

v. 

Old  decays  but  foster  new  creations ; 

Bones  and  ashes  feed  the  golden  corn ; 
Fresh  elixirs  wander  every  moment, 

Down  the  veins  through  which  the  live  past  feeds  its 
child,  the  live  unborn. 


THE    SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.    A.D.  1220. 

The  doorway  of  a  dosed  Chapel  in  the  Wartburg.     ELIZABETH 
sitting  on  the  steps. 

Eliz.  BABY  JESUS,  who  dost  lie 
Far  above  that  stormy  sky, 
In  Thy  mother's  pure  caress, 
Stoop  and  save  the  motherless. 

Happy  birds !  whom  Jesus  leaves 
Underneath  His  sheltering  eaves; 
There  they  go  to  play  and  sleep, 
May  not  I  go  in  to  weep  ? 

All  without  is  mean  and  small, 
All  within  is  vast  and  tall ; 
All  without  is  harsh  and  shrill, 
All  within  is  hushed  and  still. 

Jesus,  let  me  enter  in, 
Wrap  me  safe  from  noise  and  sin. 
Let  me  list  the  angels'  songs, 
See  the  picture  of  Thy  wrongs ; 

161 


1 62  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 

Let  me  kiss  thy  wounded  feet, 
Drink  Thine  incense,  faint  and  sweet, 
While  the  clear  bells  call  Thee  down 
From  Thine  everlasting  throne. 

At  Thy  door-step  low  I  bend, 
Who  have  neither  kin  nor  friend  ; 
Let  me  here  a  shelter  find, 
Shield  the  shorn  lamb  from  the  wind. 

Jesu,  Lord,  my  heart  will  break  : 
Save  me  for  Thy  great  love's  sake ! 

Enter  ISENTRUDIS. 

Isen.  Aha !  I  had  missed  my  little  bird  from  the  nest, 
And  judged  that  she  was  here.     What 's  this  ?  fie,  tears  ? 

Eliz.  Go !  you  despise  me  like  the  rest. 

Isen.  Despise  you  ? 

What 's   here  ?      King   Andrew's   child  ?     St.   John's   sworn 

maid  ? 

Who  dares  despise  you  ?     Out  upon  these  Saxons  ! 
They  sang  another  note  when  I  was  younger, 
When  from  the  rich  East  came  my  queenly  pearl, 
Lapt  on  this  fluttering  heart,  while  mighty  heroes 
Rode  by  her  side,  and  far  behind  us  stretched 
The  barbs  and  sumpter  mules,  a  royal  train, 
Laden  with  silks  and  furs,  and  priceless  gems, 
Wedges  of  gold,  and  furniture  of  silver, 
Fit  for  my  princess. 

Eliz.  Hush  now,  I  Ve  heard  all,  nurse, 

A  thousand  times. 

Isen.  Oh,  how  their  hungry  mouths 

Did  water  at  the  booty !     Such  a  prize, 
Since  the  three  Kings  came  wandering  into  Coin, 


SCENEI.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  163 

They  ne'er  saw,  nor  their  fathers  ;  —  well  they  knew  it ! 
Oh,  how  they  fawned  on  us  !     "  Great  Isentrudis  !  " 
"  Sweet  babe  !  "     The  Landgravine  did  thank  her  saints 
As  if  you,  or  your  silks,  had  fallen  from  heaven  ; 
And  now  she  wears  your  furs,  and  calls  us  gipsies. 
Come  tell  your  nurse  your  griefs ;  we  '11  weep  together, 
Strangers  in  this  strange  land. 

Eliz.  I  am  most  friendless. 

The  Landgravine  and  Agnes  —  you  may  see  them 
Begrudge  the  food  I  eat,  and  call  me  friend 
Of  knaves  and  serving-maids ;  the  burly  knights 
Freeze  me  with  cold  blue  eyes  :  no  saucy  page 
But  points  and  whispers,  "  There  goes  our  pet  nun  ; 
Would  but  her  saintship  leave  her  gold  behind, 
We  'd  give  herself  her  furlough."     Save  me  !  save  me  ! 
All  here  are  ghastly  dreams ;  dead  masks  of  stone, 
And  you  and  I,  and  Guta,  only  live : 
Your  eyes  alone  have  souls.     I  shall  go  mad ! 
Oh  !  that  they  would  but  leave  me  all  alone, 
To  teach  poor  girls,  and  work  within  my  chamber, 
With  mine  own  thoughts,  and  all  the  gentle  angels 
Which  glance  about  my  dreams  at  morning-tide  ; 
Then  I  should  be  as  happy  as  the  birds 
Which  sing  at  my  bower  window.     Once  I  longed 
To  be  beloved,  —  now  would  they  but  forget  me  ! 
Most  vile  I  must  be,  or  they  could  not  hate  me  ! 

Iscn.  They  are  of  this  world,  thou  art  not,  poor  child, 
Therefore  they  hate  thee,  as  they  did  thy  betters. 

Eliz.  But,  Lewis,  nurse  ? 

Iscn.  He,  child  ?  he  is  thy  knight ; 

Espoused  from  childhood  :  thou  hast  a  claim  upon  him. 
One  that  thou  'It  need,  alas  !  —  though,  I  remember  — 
'  T  is  fifteen  years  agone  —  when  in  one  cradle 
We  laid  two  fair  babes  for  a  marriage  token ; 


164  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 

And  when  your  lips  met,  then  you  smiled,  and  twined 
Your  little  limbs  together. —  Pray  the  Saints 
That  token  stand  !  —  He  calls  thee  love  and  sister, 
And  brings  thee  ge\v-ga\vs  from  the  wars  :  that 's  much  ! 
At  least  he  's  thine  if  thou  love  him. 

Eliz.  If  I  love  him  ? 

What  is  this  love  ?     Why,  is  he  not  my  brother 
And  I  his  sister  ?     Till  these  weary  wars, 
The  one  of  us  without  the  other  never 
Did  weep  or  laugh  :  what  is  't  should  change  us  now  ? 
You  shake  your  head  and  smile. 

Is  en.  Go  to  ;  the  chafe 

Comes  not  by  wearing  chains,  but  feeling  them. 

Eliz.  Alas  !  here  comes  a  knight  across  the  court ; 
O,  hide  me,  nurse  !     What 's  here  ?  this  door  is  fast. 

Isen.  Nay,  't  is  a  friend  :  he  brought  my  princess  hither, 
Walter  of  Varila;  I  feared  him  once  — 
He  used  to  mock  our  state,  and  say,  good  wine 
Should  want  no  bush,  and  that  the  cage  was  gay, 
But  that  the  bird  must  sing  before  he  praise  it. 
Yet  he  's  a  kind  heart,  while  his  bitter  tongue 
Awes  these  court  popinjays  at  times  to  manners. 
He  will  smile  sadly  too,  when  he  meets  my  maiden ; 
And  once  he  said,  he  was  your  liegeman  sworn, 
Since  my  lost  mistress,  weeping,  to  his  charge 
Trusted  the  babe  she  saw  no  more. —  God  help  us 

Eliz.  How  did  my  mother  die,  nurse  ? 

Isen.  She  died,  my  child. 

Eliz.  But  how  !     Why  turn  3 way  ? 

Too  long  I  've  guessed  at  some  dread  mystery 
I  may  not  hear :  and  in  my  restless  dreams, 
Night  after  night,  sweeps  by  a  frantic  rout 
Of  grinning  fiends,  fierce  horses,  bodiless  hands, 
Which  clutch  at  one  to  whom  my  spirit  yearns 


THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  165 


As  to  a  mother.     There  's  some  fearful  tie 
Between  me  and  that  spirit-world,  which  God 
Brands  with  his  terrors  on  my  troubled  mind. 
Speak  !  tell  me,  nurse !  is  she  in  heaven  or  hell  ? 

Ism.  God  knows,  my  child  :  there  are  masses  for  her  soul 
Each  day  in  every  Zingar  minster  sung. 

Eliz.  But  was  she  holy  ?  —  Died  she  in  the  Lord  ? 

Ism.  (weeps).  Oh,  God !  my  child !     And  if  I  told  thee  all, 
How  couldst  thou  mend  it  ? 

Eliz.  Mend  it  ?     Oh,  my  Saviour  ! 

I  'd  die  a  saint ! 

Win  heaven  for  her  by  prayers,  and  build  great  minsters, 
Chantries,  and  hospitals  for  her ;  wipe  out 
By  mighty  deeds  our  race's  guilt  and  shame  — 
But  thus,  poor  witless  orphan  !     (  Weeps.) 

COUNT  WALTER  enters. 

Wai.  Ah  !  my  princess  !  accept  your  liegeman's  knee  ; 
Down,  down,  rheumatic  flesh  ! 

Eliz.  Ah  !  Count  Walter!  you  are  too  tall  to  kneel  to  little 
girls. 

Wai.  What  ?  shall  two  hundredweight  of  hypocrisy  bow 
down  to  his  four-inch  wooden  saint,  and  the  same  weight  of 
honesty  not  worship  his  four-foot  live  one  ?  And  I  have  a 
jest  for  you,  shall  make1  my  small  queen  merry  and  wise. 

Isen.  You  shall  jest  long  before  she 's  merry. 

Wai.  Ah  !  dowers  and  dowagers  again!  The  money  — 
root  of  all  evil. 

What  comes  here  ?  [A  Page  enters. 

A  long-winged  grasshopper,  all  gold,  green,  and  gauze  ? 
How  these  young  pea-chicks  must  needs  ape  the  grown  pea- 
cock's frippery  !  Prithee,  now,  how  many  such  butterflies  as 
you  suck  here  together  on  the  thistle-head  of  royalty  ? 

Page.  Some  twelve  gentlemen  of  us,  Sir  —  apostles  of  the 


1 66  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  i. 

blind  archer,  Love  —  owning  no  divinity  but  almighty  beauty 
—  no  faith,  no  hope,  no  charity,  but  those  which  are  kindled 
at  her  eyes. 

Wai.  Saints  !  what 's  all  this  ? 

Page.  Ah,  Sir !  none  but  countrymen  swear  by  the  saints 
now-a-days :  no  oaths  but  allegorical  ones,  Sir,  at  the  high 
table;  as  thus,  —  "By  the  sleeve  of  beauty,  Madam  ;"  or 
again,  "  By  Love  his  martyrdoms,  Sir  Count ; "  or  to  a  poten- 
tate, "As  Jove's  imperial  mercy  shall  hear  my  vows,  High 
Mightiness.'"' 

WaL  Where  did  the  evil  one  set  you  on  finding  all  this 
heathenry  ? 

Page.  Oh  !  we  are  all  barristers  of  Love's  court,  Sir ;  we 
have  Ovid's  gay  science  conned,  Sir,  ad  unguentum,  as  they 
say,  out  of  the  French  book. 

Wai.  So  ?  There  are  those  come  from  Rome  then  will 
whip  you  and  Ovid  out  with  the  same  rod  which  the  dandies 
of  Provence  felt  lately  to  their  sorrow.  Oh !  what  blinkards 
are  we  gentlemen,  to  train  any  dumb  beasts  more  carefully 
than  we  do  Christians;  that  a  man  shall  keep  his  clog- 
breakers,  and  his  horse-breakers,  and  his  hawk-breakers,  and 
never  hire  him  a  boy-breaker  or  two !  that  we  should  live 
without  a  qualm  at  dangling  such  a  flock  of  mimicking  parro- 
quets  at  our  heels  a  while,  and  then,  when  they  are  well 
infected,  well  perfumed  with  the  wind-  of  our  vices,  dropping 
them  off,  as  tadpoles  do  their  tails,  joint  by  joint  into  the 
mud !  to  strain  at  such  gnats  as  an  ill-mouthed  colt  or  a 
riotous  puppy,  and  swallow  that  camel  of  camels,  a  page  ! 

Page.  Do  you  call  me  a  camel,  Sir  ? 
Wai.  What 's  your  business  ? 

Page.  My  errand  is  to  the  Princess  here. 

JEliz.  To  me  ? 

Page.  Yes ;  the  Landgravine  expects  you  at  high  mass ;  so 
go  in,  and  mind  you  clean  yourself ;  for  every  one  is  not  as 


SCENE  I.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  l6/ 

fond  as  you  of  beggars'  brats,  and  what  their  clothes  leave 
behind  them. 

Iseu.  (strikes  hint).  Monkey  !     To  whom  are  you  speaking  ? 

Eliz.  Oh,  peace,  peace,  peace !     I  '11  go  with  him. 

Page.  Then  be  quick,  my  music-master's  waiting. 
Corpo  di  Bacco !  as  if  our  elders  did  not  teach  us  to  whom 
we  ought  to  be  rude  !  [Ex.  ELIZ.  and  P\GE. 

Isen.  See  here,  Sir  Saxon,  how  this  pearl  of  price 
Is  faring  in  your  hands !     The  peerless  image, 
To  whom  this  court  is  but  the  tawdry  frame,  — 
The  speck  of  light  amid  its  murky  baseness,  — 
The  salt  which  keeps  it  all  from  rotting,  —  cast 
To  be  the  common  fool,  —  the  laughing  stock 
For  every  beardless  knave  to  whet  his  wit  on ! 
Tar-blooded  Germans  —  Here  's  another  of  them. 

[A  young  Knight  enters. 

Knight.  Heigh!     Count!    What?  learning  to  sing  psalms? 

They  are  waiting 

For  you  in  the  manage-school,  to  give  your  judgment 
On  that  new  Norman  mare. 

Wai.  Tell  them  I  'm  busy. 

Knight.  Busy  ?    St.    Martin  !    Knitting   stockings,  eh  ? 
To  clothe  the  poor  withal  ?     Is  that  your  business  ? 
I  passed  that  canting  baby  on  the  stairs ; 
Would  heaven  that  she  had  tripped,  and  broke  her  goose-neck, 
And  left  us  heirs  de facto.     So,  farewell.  \_Exit. 

Wai.  A  very  pretty  quarrel  !  matter  enough 
To  spoil  a  wagon-load  of  ash-staves  on, 
And  break  a  dozen  fool's  backs  across  their  cantlets. 
What 's  Lewis  doing  ? 

Isen.  Oh  —  befooled,  — 

Bewitched  with  dogs  and  horses,  like  an  idiot 
Clutching  his  bauble,  while  a  priceless  jewel 
Sticks  at  his  miry  heels. 


1 68  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 

Wai.                                The  boy's  no  fool,  — 
As  good  a  heart  as  hers,  but  somewhat  given 
To  hunt  the  nearest  butterfly,  and  light 
The  fire  of  fancy  without  hanging  o'er  it 
The  porridge-pot  of  practice.     He  shall  hear  or 

Iseu.  And  quickly,  for  there  's  treason  in  the  wind. 
They  '11   keep  her  dower,  and  send   her  home  with   shame 
Before  the  year 's  out. 

Wai.  Humph  !     Some  are  rogues  enough  for 't. 
As  it  falls  out,  I  ride  with  him  to-day. 

Isen.  Upon  what  business  ? 

Wai.  Some  shaveling  has  been  telling  him  that  there  are 
heretics  on  his  land  :  Stadings,  worshippers  of  black  cats, 
baby-eaters,  and  such  like.  He  consulted  me  ;  I  told  him  it 
would  be  time  enough  to  see  to  the  heretics  when  all  the 
good  Christians  had  been  well  looked  after.  I  suppose  the 
novelty  of  the  thing  smit  him,  for  now  nothing  will  serve  but 
I  must  ride  with  him  round  half  a  dozen  hamlets,  where,  with 
God's  help,  I  will  show  him  a  mansty  or  two,  that  shall  aston- 
ish his  delicate  chivalry. 

Isen.  Oh,  here  's  your  time  1     Speak  to  him,  noble  Walter. 
Stun  his  dull  ears  with  praises  of  her  grace  : 
Prick  his  dull  heart  with  shame  at  his  own  coolness. 
Oh.  right  us,  Count. 

Wai  I  will,  I  will :  go  in 

And  dry  your  eyes.  \Exeunt  separately. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Landscape  in  Thuringia.     LEWIS  and  WALTER  riding. 
Lew.  So  all  these  lands  are  mine  ;  these  yellow  meads  — 
These  village  greens,  and  forest-fretted  hills, 
With  dizzy  castles  crowned.     Mine  !     Why  that  word 
Is  rich  in  promise,  in  the  action  bankrupt. 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAIXT'S    TRAGEDY.  169 

What  faculty  of  mine,  save  dream-fed  pride, 

Can  these  things  fatten  ?     Mass  !  I  had  forgot : 

I  have  a  right  to  bark  at  trespassers. 

Rare  privilege  !     While  every  fowl  and  bush, 

According  to  its  destiny  and  nature 

(Which  were  they  truly  mine,  my  power  could  alter), 

Will  live,  and  grow,  and  take  no  thought  of  me. 

Those  firs,  before  whose  stealthy-marching  ranks 

The  world-old  oaks  still  dwindle  and  retreat, 

If  I  could  stay  their  poisoned  frown,  which  cows 

The  pale  shrunk  underwood,  and.  nestled  seeds 

Into  an  age  of  sleep,  't  were  something  :  and  those  men 

O'er  whom  that  one  word  "ownership"  uprears  me  — 

If  I  could  make  them  lift  a  finger  up 

But  of  their  own  free  will,  I  'd  own  my  seizin. 

But  now  —  when  if  I  sold  them,  life  and  limb, 

There  's  not  a  sow  would  litter  one  pig  less 

Than  when  men  called  her  mine. —  Possession  's  naught; 

A  parchment  ghost ;  a  word  I  am  ashamed 

To  claim  even  here,  lest  all  the  forest  spirits, 

And  bees  who  drain  unasked  the  free-born  flowers, 

Should  mock,  and  cry,  "Vain  man,  not  thine,  but  ours." 

Wai.  Possession  's  naught  ?     Possession  's  beef  and  ale  — 
Soft    bed,    fair    wife,    gay    horse,    good    steel.  —  Are   they 

naught  ? 

Possession  means  to  sit  astride  of  the  world, 
Instead  of  having  it  astride  of  you  ; 
Is  that  naught?     'T  is  the  easiest  trade  of  all  too  • 
For  he  that 's  fit  for  nothing  else,  is  fit 
To  own  good  land,  and  on  the  slowest  dolt 
His  state  sits  easiest,  while  his  serfs  thrive  best. 

Lew.  How  now  ?     What  need  then  of  long  discipline, 
Not  to  mere  feats  of  arms,  but  feats  of  soul ; 
To  courtesies  and  high  self-sacrifice, 


I/O  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 

To  order  and  obedience,  and  the  grace 

Which  makes  commands,  requests,  and  service,  favor? 

To  faith  and  prayer,  and  pure  thoughts,  ever  turned 

To  that  Valhalla,  where  the  virgin  saints 

And  stainless  heroes  tend  the  Queen  of  heaven  ? 

Why  these,  if  I  but  need,  like  stalled  ox 

To  chew  the  grass  cut  for  me  ? 

Wai.  Why  ?     Because 

I  have  trained  thee  for  a  knight,  boy,  not  a  ruler. 
All  callings  want  their  proper  'prentice  time 
But  this  of  ruling;  it  comes  by  mother-wit ; 
And  if  the  wit  be  not  exceeding  great, 
'T  is  best  the  wit  be  most  exceeding  small  ; 
And  he  that  holds  the  reins  should  let  the  horse 
Range  on,  feed  where  he  will,  live  and  let  live. 
Custom  and  selfishness  will  keep  all  steady 
For  half  a  life.  —  Six  months  before  you  die 
You  may  begin  to  think  of  interfering. 

Lew.  Alas  !  while  each  clay  blackens  with  fresh  clouds, 
Complains  of  ague,  fever,  crumbling  huts, 
Of  land  thrown  out  to  the  forest,  game  and  keepers, 
Bailiffs  and  barons,  plundering  all  alike  ; 
Need,  greed,  stupidity  :  To  clear  such  ruin 
Would  task  the  rich  prime  of  some  noble  hero  — 
But  can  I  nothing  do  ? 

Wai.  Oh  !  plenty,  Sir  ; 

Which  no  man  yet  has  done  or  e'er  will  do. 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  the  priest  be  honored ; 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  the  knight  be  knightly  ; 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  those  fields  grow  corn ; 
It  rests  with  you,"  whether  those  toiling  peasants 
Lift  to  their  masters  free  and  loyal  eyes, 
Or  crawl,  like  jaded  hacks,  to  welcome  graves. 
It  rests  with  you  —  and  will  rest. 


SCENE  I  r.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  I /I 

Lew.  I  '11  crowd  my  court  and  dais  with  men  of  God, 
As  doth  my  peerless  namesake,  King  of  France. 

Wai.  Priests,  Sir?     The  Frenchman  keeps  two  counsellors 
Worth  any  drove  of  priests. 

Lew.  And  who  are  they? 

WaL  God  and  his  lady-love,     (aside)   He  '11  open  at  that  — 

Lew.  I  could  be  that  man's  squire. 

Wai.  (aside)  Again  run  riot  — 

Now  for  another  cast,     (aloud}  If  you  'd  sleep  sound,  Sir, 
You  '11  let  priests  pray  for  you,  but  school  you  never. 

Lezv.  Mass  !  who  more  fitted  ? 

WaL  None,  if  you  could  trust  them  ; 

But  they  are  the  people's  creatures  ;  poor  men  give  them 
Their  power  at  the  church,  and  take  it  back  at  the  ale-house : 
Then  what 's  the  friar  to  the  starving  peasant 
Just  what  the  abbot  is  to  the  greedy  noble  — 
A  scarecrow  to  lear  wolves.     Go  ask  the  churchplate, 
Safe  in  knight's  cellars,  how  these  priests  are  feared. 
Bruised  reeds  when  you  most  need  them.  —  No,  my  Lord ; 
Copy  them,  trust  them  never. 

Lew.  Copy  ?  wherein  ? 

WaL  In  letting  every  man 

Do  what  he  likes,  and  only  seeing  he  does  it 
As  you  do  your  work  —  well.     That 's  the  Church  secret 
For  breeding  towns,  as  fast  as  you  breed  roe-deer ; 
Example,  but  not  meddling.     See  that  hollow  — 
I  knew  it  once  all  heath,  and  deep  peat-bog  — 
I  drowned  a  black  mare  in  that  self-same  spot 
Hunting  with  your  good  father  :  Well,  he  gave 
One  jovial  night,  to  six  poor  Erfurt  monks  — 
Six  picked-visaged,  wan,  bird-fingered  wights  — 
All  in  their  rough  hair  shirts,  like  hedgehogs  starved  — 
I  told  them,  six  weeks'  work  would  break  their  hearts  : 
They  answered,  Christ  would  help,  and  Christ's  great  mother, 


172  THE  SAIXTS   TRAGEDY.  Arm, 

And  make  them  strong  when  weakest :  So  they  settled  : 
And  starved  and  froze. 

Lew.  And  dug  and  built,  it  seems. 

Wai.  Faith,  that 's  true.    See  —  as  garden  walls  draw  snails^ 
They  have  drawn  a  hamlet  round ;  the  slopes  are  blue, 
Knee-deep  with  flax,  the  orchard  boughs  are  breaking 
With  strange  outlandish  fruits.     See  those  young  rogues 
Marching  to  school ;  no  poachers  here,  Lord  Landgrave, — 
Too  much  to  be  done  at  home  ;  there  's  not  a  village 
Of  yours,  now,  thrives  like  this.     By  God's  good  help 
These  men  have  made  their  ownership  worth  something. 
Here  comes  one  of  them. 

Lew.  \  would  speak  to  him  — 

And  learn  his  secret. —  We  '11  await  him  here. 
Enter  CONRAD. 

Con.  Peace  to  you,  reverend  and  war-worn  knight, 
And  you,  fair  youth,  upon  whose  swarthy  lip 
Blooms  the  rich  promise  of  a  noble  manhood. 
Methinks,  if  simple  monks  may  read  your  thoughts, 
That  with  no  envious  or  distasteful  eyes 
Ye  watch  the  labors  of  God's  poor  elect. 

Wai.  Why — we  were  saying,  how  you  cunning  rooks 
Pitch  as  by  instinct  on  the  fattest  fallows. 

Con.  For  He  who  feeds  the  ravens,  promiseth 
Our  bread  and  water  sure,  and  leads  us  on 
By  peaceful  streams  in  pastures  green  to  lie, 
Beneath  our  Shepherd's  eye. 

Lew.                                         In  such  a  nook,  now, 
To  nestle  from  this  noisy  world 

Con.  And  drop 

The  burden  of  thyself  upon  the  threshold. 

Lew.  Think  what  rich  dreams  may  haunt  those  lowly  roofs  ! 

Con.    Rich   dreams,  —  and   more ;  their   dreams  will  find 
fulfilment  — 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  173 

Their  discipline  breeds  strength  —  'T  is  we  alone 
Can  join  the  patience  of  the  laboring  ox 
Unto  the  eagle's  foresight, —  not  a  fancy 
Of  ours,  but  grows  in  time  to  mighty  deeds ; 
Victories  in  heavenly  warfare :  but  yours,  yours,  Sir, 
Oh,  choke  them,  choke  the  panting  hopes  of  youth, 
Ere  they  be  born,  and  wither  in  slow  pains, 
Cast  by  for  the  next  bauble  ! 

Lew.  'T  is  too  true  ! 

I  dread  no  toil ,    toil  is  the  true  knight's  pastime  — 
Faith  fails,  the  will  intense  and  fixed,  so  easy 
To  thee,  cut  off  from  life  and  love,  whose  powers 
In  one  close  channel  must  condense  their  stream  : 
But  I,  to  whom  this  life  blooms  rich  and  busy, 
Whose  heart  goes  out  a-Maying  all  the  year 
In  this  new  Eden  —  in  my  fitful  thought 
What  skill  is  there,  to  turn  my  faith  to  sight  — 
To  pierce  blank  Heaven,  like  some  trained  falconer 
After  his  game,  beyond  all  human  ken  ? 

Wai.  And  walk  into  the  bog  beneath  your  feet. 

Con.  And  change  it  to  firm  land  by  magic  step ! 
Build  there  cloud-cleaving  spires,  beneath  whose  shade 
Great  cities  rise  for  vassals  ;  to  call  forth 
From  plough  and  loom  the  rank  unlettered  hinds, 
And  make  them  saints  and  heroes —  send  them  forth 
To  sway  with  heavenly  craft  the  spirit  of  princes ; 
Change  nations'  destinies,  and  conquer  worlds 
With  love,  more  mighty  than  the  sword ;  what,  Count  ? 
Art  thou  ambitious  ?  practical  ?  we  monks 
Can  teach  you  somewhat  there  too. 

Lew.  Be  it  so  ; 

But  love  you  have  forsworn ;  and  what  were  life 
Without  that  chivalry,  which  bends  man's  knees 
Before  God's  image  and  his  glory,  best 


THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 


Revealed  in  woman's  beauty  ? 

Con.  Ah  !  poor  worldlings  ! 

Little  you  dream  what  maddening  ecstasies, 
What  rich  ideals  haunt,  by  day  and  night, 
Alone,  and  in  the  crowd,  even  to  the  death, 
The  servitors  of  that  celestial  court 
\Yhere  peerless  Mary,  sun-enthroned,  reigns, 

whom  all  Eden  dreams  of  womanhood, 
All  grace  of  form,  hue,  sound,  all  beauty  strewn 
Like  pearls  unstrung,  about  this  ruined  world, 
Have  their  fulfilment  and  their  archetype. 
Why  hath  the  rose  its  scent,  the  lily  grace  ? 
To  mirror  forth  her  loveliness,  from  whom, 
Primeval  fount  of  grace,  their  livery  came  : 
Pattern  of  Seraphs  !  only  worthy  ark 
To  bear  her  God  athwart  the  floods  of  time  ! 

Lew.  Who  dare  aspire  to  her  ?     Alas,  not  I  ! 
To  me  she  is  a  doctrine,  and  a  picture  :  — 
I  cannot  live  on  dreams. 

Con.  She  hath  her  train  :  — 

There  thou  may'st  choose  thy  love  :  If  world-wide  lore 
Shall  please  thee,  and  the  Cherub's  glance  of  fire, 
Let  Catharine  lift  thy  soul,  and  rapt  with  her 
Question  the  mighty  dead,  until  thou  float 
Tranced  on  the  ethereal  ocean  of  her  spirit. 
If  pity  father  passion  in  thee,  hang 
Above  Eulalia's  tortured  loveliness  ; 
And  for  her  sake,  and  in  her  strength,  go  forth 
To  do  and  suffer  greatly.     Dost  thou  long 
For  some  rich  heart,  as  deep  in  love  as  weakness, 
Whose  wild  simplicity  sweet  heaven-born  instincts 
Alone  keep  sane  ? 

Lew.  I  do,  I  do.     I  'd  live 

And  die  for  each  and  all  the  three. 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  175 

Con.  Then  go  — 

Entangled  in  the  Magdalen's  tresses  lie  ; 
Dream  hours  before  her  picture,  till  thy  lips 
Dare  to  approach  her  feet,  and  thou  shalt  start 
To  find  the  canvas  warm  with  life,  and  matter 
A  moment  transubstantiate  to  heaven. 

Wai.  Ay,  catch  his  fever,  Sir,  and  learn  to  take 
An  indigestion  for  a  troop  of  angels. 
Come,  tell  him,  monk,  about  your  magic  gardens, 
Where  not  a  stringy  head  of  kale  is  cut 
But  breeds  a  vision  or  a  revelation. 

Lew.  Hush,  hush,  Count !     Speak,  strange  monk,  strange 

words,  and  waken 
Longings  more  strange  than  either. 

Con.  Then,  if  proved, 

As  I  dare  vouch  thee,  loyal  in  thy  love, 
Even  to  the  Queen  herself  thy  saintlier  soul 
At  length  may  soar  :  perchance  —  Oh,  bliss  too  great 
For  thought  —  yet  possible  ! 

Receive  some  token  —  smile  —  or  hallowing  touch 
Of  that  white  hand,  beneath  whose  soft  caress 
The  raging  world  is  smoothed,  and  runs  its  course 
To  shadow  forth  her  glory. 

Lew.  Thou  dost  tempt  me  — 

That  were  a  knightly  quest. 

Con.                                         Ay,  here  's  true  love. 
Love's  heaven,  without  its  hell ;  the  golden  fruit 
Without  the  foul  husk,  which  at  Adam's  fall 
Did  crust  it  o'er  with  filth  and  selfishness. 
I  tempt  thee  heavenward  —  from  yon  azure  walls. 
Unearthly  beauties  beckon  —  God's  own  mother 
Waits  longing  for  thy  choice 

Lew.  Is  this  a  dream  ? 

Wai.  Ay,  by  the  Living  Lord,  who  died  for  you ! 


176  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  r. 

Will  you  be  cozened,  Sir,  by  these  air-blown  fancies, 
These  male  hysterics,  by  starvation  bred 
And  huge  conceit  ?     Cast  off  God's  gift  of  manhood, 
And,  like  the  dog  in  the  adage,  drop  the  true  bone 
With  snapping  at  the  sham  one  in  the  water  ? 
What  were  you  born  a  man  for? 

Lew.  Ay,  I  know  it :  — 

I  cannot  live  on  dreams.     Oh,  for  one  friend, 
Myself,  yet  not  myself ;  one  not  so  high 
But  she  could  love  me,  not  too  pure  to  pardon 
My  sloth  and  meanness  !     Oh  !  for  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  whose  feet  I  could  adore,  yet  love ! 
How  easy  then  were  duty !     From  her  lips 
To  learn  my  daily  task ;  —  in  her  pure  eyes 
To  see  the  living  type  of  those  heaven-glories 
I  dare  not  look  on  ;  —  let  her  work  her  will 
Of  love  and  wisdom  on  these  straining  hinds ;  — 
To  squire  a  saint  around  her  labor  field, 
And  she  and  it  both  mine  :  —  That  were  possession  ! 

Con.  The  flesh,  fair  youth 

WaL  Avaunt,  bald  snake,  avaunt! 

WTe  are  past  your  burrow  now.     Come,  come,  Lord  Landgrave, 
Look  round,  and  find  your  saint. 

Lew.  Alas  !  one  such  — 

One  such,  I  know,  who  upward  from  one  cradle 
Beside  me  like  a  sister — No,  thank  God  !  no  sister!  — 
Has  grown  and  grown,  and  with  her  mellow  shade 
Has  blanched  my  thornless  thoughts  to  her  own  hue, 
And  even  now  is  budding  into  blossom, 
Which  never  shall  bear  fruit,  but  inward  still 
Resorb  its  vital  nectar,  self-contained, 
And  leave  no  living  copies  of  its  beauty 
To  after  ages.     Ah  !  be  less,  sweet  maid, 
Less  than  thyself !     Yet  no  —  my  wife  thou  might'st  be, 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  1 77 

If  less  than  thus — but  not  the  saint  thou  art. 

What !  shall  my  selfish  longings  drag  thee  down 

From  maid  to  wife  ?  degrade  the  soul  I  worship  ? 

That  were  a  caitiff  deed  !     Oh,  misery  ! 

Is  wedlock  treason  to  that  purity, 

Which  is  the  jewel  and  the  soul  of  wedlock  ? 

Elizabeth !  my  saint !  [Exit  CONRAD. 

Wai  What,  Sir?  the  Princess? 

Ye  saints  in  heaven,  I  thank  you ! 

Lew.  Oh,  who  else, 

Who  else  the  minutest  lineament  fulfils 
Of  this  my  cherished  portrait  ? 

Wai.  So  — 'tis  well. 

Hear  me,  my  Lord. — You  think  this  dainty  princess 
Too  perfect  for  you,  eh  ?     That 's  well  again ; 
For  that  whose  price  after  fruition  falls 
May  well  too  high  be  rated  ere  enjoyed  — 
In  plain  words, —  if  she  looks   an  angel  now,  you  will  be 
better   mated   than   you   expected,  when   you   find   her  —  a 
woman.     For  flesh  and  blood  she  is,  and  that  young  blood,  — 
whom    her   childish   misusage  and  your  brotherly  love  :  her 
loneliness  and  your  protection  ;  her  springing  fancy  and  (for  I 
may  speak  to  you  as  a  son)  your  beauty  and  knightly  grace, 
have  so  bewitched,  and  as  some  say,  degraded,  that  briefly, 
she  loves  you,  and  briefly,  better,  her  few  friends  fear,  than 
you  love  her. 

Lew.  Loves  me  !     My  Count,  that  word  is  quickly  spoken ; 
And  yet,  if  it  be  true,  it  thrusts  me  forth 
Upon  a  shoreless  sea  of  untried  passion, 
From  whence  is  no  return. 

Wai.  By  Siegfried's  sword, 

My  words  are  true,  and  I  came  here  to  say  them, 
To  thee,  my  son  in  all  but  blood. 
Mass,  I  'm  no  gossip.     Why  ?     What  ails  the  boy  ? 


1/8  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  r. 

Lew.  Loves  me !  Henceforth  let  no  man,  peering  down 
Through  the  dim  glittering  mine  of  future  years, 
Say  to  himself  "  Too  much  !   this  cannot  be  !  " 
To-day,  and  custom,  wall  up  our  horizon  : 
Before  the  hourly  miracle  of  life 

Blindfold  we  stand,  and  sigh,  as  though  God  were  not. 
I  have  wandered  in  the  mountains,  mist-bewildered, 
Ar.d  now  a  breeze  comes,  and  the  veil  is  lifted, 
And  priceless  flowers,  o'er  which  I  trod  unheeding, 
Gleam  ready  for  my  grasp.     She  loves  me  then ! 
She  who  to  me  was  as  a  nightingale 
That  sings  in  magic  gardens,  rock-beleaguered, 
To  passing  angels  melancholy  music  — 
Whose  dark  eyes  hung,  like  far-off  evening  stars, 
Through  rosy-cushioned  windows  coldly  shining 
Down  from  the  cloud-world  of  her  unknown  fancy  — 
She,  for  whom  holiest  touch  of  holiest  knight 
Seemed  all  too  gross  —  who  might  have  been  a  saint 
And  companied  with  angels  —  thus  to  pluck 
The  spotless  rose  of  her  own  maidenhood 
To  give  it  unto  me  ! 

Wai.  You  love  her  then  ? 

Lew.  Look  !     If  yon  solid  mountain  were  all  gold, 
And  each  particular  tree  a  band  of  jewels, 
And  from  its  womb  the  Niebelungen  hoard 
With  elfin  wardens  called  me,  "  Leave  thy  love 
And  be  our  Master"  —  I  would  turn  away  — 
And  know  no  wealth  but  her. 

WaL  Shall  I  say  this  to  her? 

I  arn  no  carrier  pigeon,  Sir,  by  breed, 
But  now,  between  her  friends  and  persecutors, 
My  life  's  a  burden. 

Lew.  Persecutors  !     Who  ? 

Alas  !  I  guess  it  —  I  had  known  my  mother 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY  1/9 

Too  light  for  that  fair  saint, —  but  who  else  dare  wink 
When  she  is  by  ?     My  knights  ? 

Wai.  To  a  man,  my  Lord. 

Lew.  Here  's  chivalry !     Well,  that 's  soon  brought  to  bar. 
The  quarrel 's  mine  ;  my  lance  shall  clear  that  stain. 

Wai.  Quarrel  with  your  knights  ?     Cut  your  own  chair-legs 

off! 

They  do  but  sail  with  the  stream.     Her  passion,  Sir, 
Broke  shell  and  ran  out  twittering  before  yours  did, 
And  unrequited  love  is  mortal  sin 
With  this  chaste  world.     My  boy,  my  boy,  I  tell  you, 
The  fault  lies  nearer  home. 

Lew.  I  have  played  the  coward  — 

And  in  the  sloth  of  false  humility, 
Cast  by  the  pearl  I  dared  not  to  deserve. 
How  laggard  I  must  seem  to  her,  though  she  love  me  ; 
Playing  with  hawks  and  hounds,  while  she  sits  weeping ! 
'T  is  not  too  late. 

Wai.  Too  late,  my  royal  eyas  ? 

You  shall  strike  this  deer  yourself  at  gaze  ere  long  — 
She  has  no  mind  to  slip  to  cover. 

Lew.  Come  — 

We  '11  back —  we  '11  back  ;  and  you  shall  bear  the  message ; 
I  am  ashamed  to  speak.     Tell  her  I  love  her  — 
That  I  should  need  to  tell  her !     Say,  my  coyness 
Was  bred  of  worship,  not  of  coldness. 

Wai.  Then  the  serfs 

Must  wait  ? 

Lew.  Why  not  ?     This  day  to  them,  too,  blessing  brings, 
Which  clears  from  envious  webs  their  guardian  angel's  wings. 

[Exeunt. 


I  SO  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 


SCENE  III. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Castle.     SOPHIA,  ELIZABETH,  AGNES, 
ISENTRUDE,  etc.,  re-entering. 

Soph.  What !  you  will  not !     You  hear,  Dame  Isentrude, 
She  will  not  wear  her  coronet  in  the  church, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  crucifix  within 
Is  crowned  with  thorns.     You  hear  her. 

Eliz.  Noble  mother ! 

How  could  I  flaunt  this  bauble  in  His  face 
Who  hung  there,  naked,  bleeding,  all  for  me  — 
I  felt  it  shamelessness  to  go  so  gay. 

Soph.  Felt  ?    What  then  ?     Every  foolish  wench  has  feelings 
In  these  religious  days,  and  thinks  it  carnal 
To  wash  her  dishes,  and  obey  her  parents  — 
No  wonder  they  ape  you,  if  you  ape  them  — 
Go  to  !  I  hate  this  humble-minded  pride, 
Self-willed  submission  —  to  your  own  pert  fancies; 
This  fog-bred  mushroom-spawn  of  brain-sick  wits, 
Who  make  their  oddities  their  test  for  grace, 
And  peer  about  to  catch  the  general  eye ; 
Ah  !  I  have  watched  you  throw  your  playmates  down 
To  have  the  pleasure  of  kneeling  for  their  pardon. 
Here  's  sanctity  —  to  shame  your  cousin  and  me  — 
Spurn  rank  and  proper  pride,  and  decency;  — 
If  God  has  made  you  noble,  use  your  rank, 
If  you  but  know  how.     You  Landgravine  ?     You  mated 
With  gentle  Lewis  ?     Why,  belike  you  '11  cowl  him, 
As  that  stern  prude,  your  aunt,  cowled  her  poor  spouse ; 
No  —  one  Hedwiga  at  a  time  's  enough,  — 
My  son  shall  die  no  monk. 

Isen.  Beseech  you,  Madam, — 

Weep  not,  my  darling. 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  l8l 

Soph.  Tut  —  I  '11  speak  my  mind. 

We  '11  have  no  saints.     Thank  heaven,  my  saintliness 
Ne'er  troubled  my  good  man,  by  day  or  night. 
We  '11  have  no  saints,  I  say ;  far  better  for  you, 
And  no  doubt  pleasanter  —  You  know  your  place  — 
Ay  least  you  know  your  place, —  to  take  to  cloisters, 
And  there  sit  carding  wool,  and  mumbling  Latin, 
With  sour  old  maids,  and  maundering  Magdalens, 
Proud  of  your  frost-kibed  feet,  and  dirty  serge. 
There  's  nothing  noble  in  you,  but  your  blood  ; 
And  that  one  almost  doubts.     Who  art  thou,  child  ? 

Isen.  The  daughter,  please  your  highness, 
Of  Andreas,  King  of  Hungary,  your  better ; 
And  your  son's  spouse. 

Soph.  I  had  forgotten,  truly  — 

And  you,  Dame  Isentrudis,  are  her  servant, 
And  mine  :  come,  Agnes,  leave  the  gipsy  ladies 
To  say  their  prayers,  and  set  the  Saints  the  fashion. 

SOPHIA  and  AGNES  go  out. 

Isen.  Proud  hussy !     Thou  shalt  set  thy  foot  on  her  neck 

yet,  darling, 
When  thou  art  Landgravine. 

Eliz.  And  when  will  that  be  ? 

No,  she  speaks  truth  !     I  should  have  been  a  nun. 
These  are  the  wages  of  my  cowardice, — 
Too  weak  to  face  the  world,  to  weak  to  leave  it ! 

Guta.  I  '11  take  the  veil  with  you. 

Eliz.  'T  were  but  a  moment's  work,— 

To  slip  into  the  convent  there  below, 
And  be  at  peace  forever.     And  you,  my  nurse  ? 

Isen.  I  will  go  with  thee,  child,  where'er  thou  goest. 
But  Lewis  ? 

Eliz.  Ah  !  my  brother  !     No,  I  dare  not  — 

I  dare  not  turn  forever  from  this  hope, 


1 82  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 

Though  it  be  twindled  to  a  thread  of  mist. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  could  flee  and  leave  this  Babel ! 

Oh !  if  he  were  but  some  poor  chapel-priest, 

In  lonely  mountain  valleys  far  away; 

And  I  his  serving-maid,  to  work  his  vestments, 

And  dress  his  scrap  of  food,  and  see  him  stand 

Before  the  altar  like  a  rainbowed  saint ; 

To  take  the  blessed  wafer  from  his  hand, 

Confess  my  heart  to  him,  ^nd  all  night  long 

Pray  for  him  while  he  slept,  or  through  the  lattice 

Watch  while  he  read,  and  see  the  holy  thoughts 

Swell  in  his  big  deep  eyes.  —  Alas  !  that  dream 

Is  wilder  than  the  one  that 's  fading  even  now ! 

Who  's  here  ?  \A  Page  enters. 

Page.  The  Count  of  Varila,  Madam,  begs   permission   to 
speak  with  you. 

Eliz.  With  me  ?     What 's  this  new  terror  ? 

1  ill  him  I  wait  him. 

Isen.  (aside).  Ah  !    my  old  heart  sinks  — 
God  send  us  rescue  !     Here  the  champion  comes. 

COUNT  WALTER  enters. 

Wai.  Most  learned,  fair,  and  sanctimonious  Princess  — 
Plague,  what  comes  next  ?     I  had  something  orthodox  ready ; 
'T  is  dropped  out  by  the  way.  —  Mass !  here  's  the  pith  on  't. — 
Madam,  I  come  a-wooing ;  and  for  one 
Who  is  as  only  worthy  of  your  love, 
As  you  of  his ;  he  bids  me  claim  the  spousals 
Made  long  ago  between  you, —  and  yet  leaves 
Your  fancy  free,  to  grant  or  pass  that  claim  ; 
And  being  that  Mercury  is  not  my  planet, 
He  hath  advised  himself  to  set  herein, 
With  pen  and  ink,  what  seemed  good  to  him, 
As  passport  to  this  jewelled  mirror,  pledge 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  183 

Unworthy  of  his  worship.  [Gives  a  letter  and  jewel. 

Isen.  Nu.nc  Domine  dimittis  servam  tuam  ! 

Elizabeth  looks  over  the  letter  and  casket,  daps  her  hands,  and 

bursts  into  childish  laughter. 

Why  here  's  my  Christmas  tree  come  after  Lent  — 
Espousals  ?  pledges  ?  by  our  childish  love  ? 
Pretty  words  for  folks  to  think  of  at  the  wars, — 
And  pretty  presents  come  of  them  !     Look,  Guta ! 
A  crystal  clear,  and  carve n  on  the  reverse, 
The  blessed  rood.     He  told  me  once  —  one  night, 
When  we  did  sit  in  the  garden  —  What  was  I  saying? 

Wai.  My  fairest  Princess,  as  ambassador, 

What  shall  I  answer  ? 

Eliz.  Tell  him  —  tell  him  —  God  ! 

Have  I  grown  mad,  or  a  child,  within  the  moment  ? 
The  earth  has  lost  her  gray  sad  hue,  and  blazes 
With  her  old  life-light;  hark  !  yon  wind  's  a  song  — 
Those  clouds  are  angels'  robes. —  That  fiery  west 
Is  paved  with  smiling  faces. —  I  am  a  woman, 
And  all  things  bid  me  love !  my  dignity 
Is  thus  to  cast  my  virgin  pride  away, 
And  find  my  strength  in  weakness. —  Busy  brain  ! 
Thou  keep  'st  pace  with  my  heart ;  old  lore,  old  fancies, 
Buried  for  years,  leap  from  their  tombs,  and  proffer 
Their  magic  service  to  my  new-born  spirit. 
I  '11  go  —  I  am  not  mistress  of  myself  — 
Send  for  him  — bring  him  to  me  —  he  is  mine  !  {Exit. 

Isen.  Ah  !  blessed  Saints  !  how  changed  upon  the  moment ! 
She  is  grown  taller,  trust  me,  and  her  eye 
Flames  like  a  fresh-caught  hind's.     She  that  was  christened 
A  brown  mouse  for  her  stillness  !     Good  my  Lord  ! 
Now  shall  mine  old  bones  see  the  grave  in  peace  ! 


184  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  I. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Bridal  Feast.  ELIZABETH,  LEWIS,  SOPHIA,  and  Company 
seated  at  the  Dais  table.  Court  Minstrel  and  Court 
Fool  sitting  on  the  Dais  steps. 

Mm.     How  gaily  smile  the  heavens, 

The  light  winds  whisper  gay  ; 

For  royal  birth  and  knightly  worth 

Are  knit  to  one  to-day. 
Fool  (drowning  his  voice). 

So  we  '11  flatter  them  up,  and  we  '11  cocker  them  up 

Till  we  turn  young  brains  ; 

And  pamper  the  brach  till  we  make  her  a  wolf, 

And  get  bit  by  the  legs  for  our  pains. 
Monks  (chanting  withouf). 

A  fastu  et  superbia 

Domine  libera  nos. 
Min.     'Neath  sandal  red  and  samite', 

Are  knights  and  ladies  set ; 

The  henchmen  tall  stride  through  the  hall, 

The  board  with  wine  is  wet. 
Fool.     Oh  !  merrily  growls  the  starving  hind, 

At  my  full  skin ; 

And  merrily  howl  wolf,  wind,  and  owl, 

While  I  lie  warm  within. 
Monks.     A  luxu  et  avaritia" 

Domine  libera  nos. 
Min.     Hark  !  from  the  bridal  bower, 

Rings  out  the  bridesmaid's  song  ; 

"  'T  is  the  mystic  hour  of  an  untried  power, 

The  bride  she  tarries  long." 
Fool.     She  's  schooling  herself  and  she  's  steeling  herself, 

Against  the  dreary  day, 


SCENE  iv.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  185 

When  she  '11  pine  and  sigh  from  her  lattice  high 

For  the  knight  that 's  far  away. 
Monks.     A  carnis  illectamentis 
Domine  libera  nos. 
Mm.     Blest  maid  !  fresh  roses  o'er  thee 

The  careless  years  shall  fling ; 

While  days  and  nights  shall  new  delights 

To  sense  and  fancy  bring. 
Fool.     Satins  and  silks,  and  feathers  and  lace, 

Will  gild  life's  pill; 

In  jewels  and  gold  folks  cannot  grow  old, 

Fine  ladies  will  never  fall  ill. 
Monks.     A  vanitatibus  saeculi 
Domine  libera  nos. 

[SOPHIA  descends  from   the  Dais,  leading  ELIZABETH,  Ladies 

follow^ 
Sophia  (to  the  Fool).     Silence,  you  screech-owl. — 

Come  strew  flowers,  fair  ladies, 
And  lead  into  her  bower  our  fairest  bride, 
The  cynosure  of  love  and  beauty  here, 
Wrho  shrines  heaven's  graces  in  earth's  richest  casket. 

Eliz.  I  come.      (aside}  Here,   Guta,   take   those  monks  a 

fee  — 

Tell  them  I  thank  them  —  bid  them  pray  for  me. 
I  am  half  mazed  with  trembling  joy  within, 
And  noisy  wassail  round.     'Tis  well,  for  else 
The  spectre  of  my  duties  and  my  dangers 
Would  whelm  my  heart  with  terror.     Ah  !  poor  self  ! 
Thou  took'st  this  for  the  term  and  bourne  of  troubles  — 
And  now  't  is  here,  thou  findest  it  the  gate 
Of  new  sin-cursed  infinities  of  labor, 
Where  thou  must  do,  or  die ! 

(aloud)  Lead  on.     I  '11  follow.     \Exeunt. 


1 86  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

fool.  There,  now.  No  fee  for  the  fool  ;  and  yet  my  pre- 
scription was  as  good  as  those  old  Jeremies'.  But  in  law, 
physic,  and  divinity  folks  had  sooner  be  poisoned  in  Latin, 
than  saved  in  the  mother-tongue. 


ACT   II. 
SCENE  I.  A.  D.  1221-27. 

ELIZABETH'S  Bower.     Night.     LEWIS   sleeping  in   an  Alcove. 
ELIZABETH  lying  on  the  Floor  in  the  Foreground. 

Eliz.  No  streak  yet  in  the  blank  and  eyeless  east  — 
More  weary  hours  to  ache,  and  smart,  and  shiver 
On  these  bare  boards,  within  a  step  of  bliss. 
Why  peevish?     'Tis  mine  own  will  keeps  me  here  — 
And  yet  I  hate  myself  for  that  same  will : 
Fightings  within  and  out !     How  easy  't  were,  now, 
Just  to  be  like  the  rest,  and  let  life  run  — 
To  use  up  to  the  rind  what  joys  God  sends  us, 
Not  thus  forestall  His  rod  :  What !  and  so  lose 
The  strength  which  comes  by  suffering  ?     Well,  if  grief 
Be  gain,  mine's  double  —  fleeing  thus  the  snare 
Of  yon  luxurious  and  unnerving  down, 
And  widowed  from  mine  Eden.     And  why  widowed  ? 
Because  they  tell  me,  love  is  of  the  flesh, 
And  that 's  our  house-bred  foe,  the  adder  in  our  bosoms. 

Which  warned  to  life,  will  sting  us.     They  must  know 

I  do  confess  mine  ignorance,  Oh,  Lord ! 

Mine  earnest  will  these  painful  limbs  may  prove. 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  yet  I  swore  to  love  him.  —  So  I  do 
No  more  than  I  have  sworn.     Am  I  to  blame 
If  God  makes  wedlock  that,  which  if  it  be  not, 


SCENE  I.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  l8/ 

* 

It  were  a  shame  for  modest  lips  to  speak  it, 
And  silly  doves  are  better  mates  than  we  ? 
And  yet  our  love  is  Jesus'  due,  —  and  all  things 
Which  share  with  Him  divided  empery 
Are  snares  and  idols  —  "To  love,  to  cherish,  and  to  obey !  " 

Oh  !  deadly  riddle  !     Rent  and  twofold  life  ! 

Oh  !  cruel  troth  !     To  keep  thee  or  to  break  thee 

Alike  seems  sin !  Oh  !  thou  beloved  tempter. 

[Turning  toward  the  bed. 
Who  first  didst  teach  me  love,  why  on  thyself 
From  God  divert  thy  lesson  ?     Wilt  provoke  Him  ? 
What  if  mine  heavenly  Spouse  in  jealous  ire 
Should  smite  mine  earthly  spouse  ?     Have  I  two  hushands  ? 
The  words  are  horror  —  yet  they  are  orthodox  ! 

\Rises  and  goes  to  the  window. 

How  many  many  brows  of  happy  lovers 

The  fragrant  lips  of  night  even  now  are  kissing ! 

Some  wandering  hand  in  hand  through  arched  lanes ; 

Some  listening  for  loved  voices  at  the  lattice ; 

Some  steeped  in  dainty  dreams  of  untried  bliss ; 

Some  nestling  soft  and  deep  in  well-known  arms, 

Whose  touch  makes  sleep  rich  life.     The  very  birds 

Within  their  nests  are  wooing !     So  much  love  ! 

All  seek  their  mates,  or  finding,  rest  in  peace ; 

The  earth  seems  one  vast  bride-bed.     Doth  God  tempt  us  ? 

Is  't  all  a  veil  to  blind  our  eyes  from  Him  ? 

A  fire-fly  at  the  candle !     'T  is  love  leads  him  : 

Love  's  light,  and  light  is  love  :  Oh,  Eden  !  Eden  ! 

Eve  was  a  virgin  there,  they  say ;  God  knows. 

Must  all  this  be  as  it  had  never  been  ? 

Is  it  all  a  fleeting  type  of  higher  love  ? 

Why,  if  the  lesson  's  pure,  is  not  the  teacher 


1 88  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

_  . 

Pure  also  ?     Is  it  my  shame  to  feel  no  shame  ? 

Am  I  more  clean,  the  more  I  scent  uncleanness? 

Shall  base  emotions  picture  Christ's  embrace? 

Rest,  Rest,  torn  heart !     Yet  where  ?  in  earth  or  heaven  ? 

Still,  from  out  the  bright  abysses,  gleams  our  Lady's  silver 
footstool, 

Still  the  light-world  sleeps  beyond  her,  though  the  night- 
clouds  fleet  below. 

Oh  !  that  I  were  walking,  far  above,  upon  that  dappled  pave- 
ment, 

Heaven's  floor,  which  is  the  ceiling  of  the  dungeon  where  we 
lie. 

Ah,  what  blessed  Saints  might  meet  me,  on  that  platform, 
sliding  silent, 

Past  us  in  its  airy  travels,  angel-wafted,  mystical ! 

They  perhaps  might  tell  me  all  things,  opening  up  the  secret 
fountains 

Which  now  struggle,  dark  and  turbid,  through  their  dreary 
prison  clay. 

Love !  art  thou  an  earth-born  streamlet,  that  thou  seek'st  the 
lowest  hollows  ? 

Sure  some  vapors  float  up  from  thee,  mingling  with  the 
highest  blue. 

Spirit-love  in  spirit-bodies,  melted  into  one  existence  — 

Joining  praises  through  the  ages  —  Is  it  all  a  minstrel's 
dream  ? 

Alas  !  he  wakes.  [LEWIS  rises. 

Lewis.  Ah  !  faithless  beauty, 

Is  this  your  promise,  that  whene'er  you  prayed 

I  should  be  still  the  partner  of  your  vigils, 

And  learn  from  you  to  pray  ?     Last  night  I  lay  dissembling 

When  she  who  woke  you,  took  my  feet  for  yours : 

Now  I  shall  seize  my  lawful  prize  perforce. 

Alas  !  what 's  this  ?     These  shoulders'  cushioned  ice, 


SCENE  i.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  189 

And  thin  soft  flanks,  with  purple  lashes  all, 

And  weeping  furrows  traced  ?     Ah  !  precious  life-blood  ! 

Who  has  done  this  ? 

Eliz.  Forgive!  'twas  I  —  my  maidens  — 

Lewis.  O  ruthless  hags ! 

Eliz.  Not  so,  not  so  —  They  wept 

When  I  did  bid  them,  as  I  bid  thee  now 
To  think  of  nought  but  love. 

Lewis.  Elizabeth ! 

Speak  !     I  will  know  the  meaning  of  this  madness  ! 

Eliz.  Beloved,  thou  hast  heard  how  godly  souls, 
In  every  age,  have  tamed  the  rebel  flesh 
By  such  sharp  lessons.     I  must  tread  their  paths, 
If  I  would  climb  the  mountains  where  they  rest. 
Grief  is  the  gate  of  bliss  —  why  wedlock  — knighthood  — 
A  mother's  joy — a  hard-earned  field  of  glory  — 
By  tribulation  come  —  so  doth  God's  kingdom. 

Lewis.  But  doleful  nights,  and  self-inflicted  tortures  — 
Are  these  the  love  of  God  ?     Is  He  well  pleased 
With  this  stern  holocaust  of  health  and  joy  ? 

Eliz.  What !     Am  I  not  as  gay  a  lady-love 
As  ever  clipt  in  arms  a  noble  knight  ? 
Am  I  not  blithe  as  bird  the  live-long  day  ? 
It  pleases  me  to  bear  what  you  call  pain, 
Therefore  to  me  'tis  pleasure  :  joy  and  grief 
Are  the  will's  creatures;  martyrs  kiss  the  stake  — 
The  moorland  colt  enjoys  the  thorny  furze  — 
•  The  dullest  boor  will  seek  a  fight,  and  count 
His  pleasure  by  his  wounds  ;  you  must  forget,  love, 
Eve's  curse  lays  suffering,  as  their  natural  lot, 
On  womankind,  till  custom  makes  it  light. 
I  know  the  use  of -pain  ;  bar  not  the  leech 
Because  his  cure  is  bitter  —  'Tis  such  medicine 
Which  breeds  that  paltry  strength,  that  weak  devotion, 


190  THE  SAIWS  TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

For  which  you  say  you  love  me.  —  Ay,  which  brings 
Even  when  most  sharp,  a  stern  and  awful  joy 
As  its  attendant  angel  — I  '11  say  no  more  — 
Not  even  to  thee  —  command,  and  I  '11  obey  thee. 

Leivis.  Thou  casket  of  all  graces  !  fourfold  wonder 
Of  wit  and  beauty,  love  and  wisdom  !     Cast  thou 
Beatify  the  ascetic's  savagery 
To  heavenly  prudence  ?     Horror  melts  to  pity, 
And  pity  kindles  to  adoring  shower 
Of  radiant  tears  !     Thou  tender  cruelty  ! 
God  smiling  martyrclon  !     Shall  I  forbid  thee  ? 
Limit  thy  depth  by  mine  own  shallowness  ? 
Thy  courage  by  my  weakness  ?     Where  thou  darest, 
I  '11  shudder  and  submit.     I  kneel  here  spell-bound 
Before  my  bleeding  Saviour's  living  likeness 
To  worship,  not  to  cavil  :  I  had  dreamt  of  such  things, 
Dim  heard  in  legends,  while  my  pitiful  blood 
Tingled  through  every  vein,  and  wept,  and  swore 
'Twas  beautiful,  'twas  Christ-like  —  had  I  thought 
That  thou  wert  such  :  — 

Eliz.  You  would  have  loved  me  still  ? 

Lewis,  I  have  gone  mad,  I  think,  at  every  parting 
At  mine  own  terrors  for  thee.     No;  I  '11  learn  to  glory 
In  that  which  makes  thee  glorious  !     Noble  stains  ! 
T  '11  call  them  rose  leaves  out  of  paradise 
Strewn  on  the  wreathed  snows,  or  rubies  dropped 
From  martyrs'  diadems,  prints  of  Jesus'  cross 
Too  truly  borne,  alas  ! 

Eliz.  I  think,  mine  own, 

I  am  forgiven  at  last  ? 

Lewis.  To-night,  my  sister  — 

Henceforth  I  '11  clasp  thee  to  my  heart  so  fast 
Thou  shalt  not  'scape  unnoticed. 

Eliz.  (laughing)  We  shall  see-^ 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  19 1 

Now  I  must  stop  those  wise  lips  with  a  kiss, 
And  lead  thee  back  to  scenes  of  simpler  bliss. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Castle.    ELIZABETH  —  the  Fool —  ISENTRUDIS 
—  GUTA  singing. 

Far  among  the  lonely  hills, 
As  I  lay  beside  my  sheep, 
Rest  came  down  upon  my  soul, 
From  the  everlasting  deep. 

Changeless  march  the  stars  above, 
Changeless  morn  succeeds  to  even ; 
And  the  everlasting  hills, 
Changeless  watch  the  changeless  heaven. 

See  the  rivers,  how  they  run, 
Changeless  to  the  changeless  sea ; 
All  around  is  forethought  sure, 
Fixed  will  and  stern  decree. 

Can  the  sailor  move  the  main  ? 
Will  the  potter  heed  the  clay  ? 
Mortal !  where  the  spirit  drives, 
Thither  must  the  wheels  obey. 

Neither  ask,  nor  fret,  nor  strive  : 
Where  thy  path  is,  thou  shalt  go. 
He  who  made  the  streams  of  time 
Wafts  thee  down  to  weal  or  woe. 

Eliz.  That 's  a  sweet  song,  and  yet  it  does  not  chime 
With  my  heart's  inner  voice.     Where  had  you  it,  Guta  ? 


192  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

Gitta.  From  a  nun  who  was  a  shepherdess  in  her  youth 
—  sadly  plagued  she  was  by  a  cruel  stepmother,  till  she 
fled  to  a  convent  and  found  rest  to  her  soul. 

Fool.  No  doubt ;  nothing  so  pleasant  as  giving  up  one's  will 
in  one's  own  way.     But  she  might  have  learnt  all  that  without 
taking  cold  on  the  hill-tops. 
Eliz.  Where  then,  Fool  ? 

Fool.  At  any  market-cross  where  two  or  three  rogues  are 
together,  who  have  neither  grace  to  mend,  nor  courage  to  say 
"  I  did  it."  Now  you  shall  see  the  shepherdess'  baby  dressed 
in  my  cap  and  bells. 

[Sings. 

When  I  was  a  greenhorn  and  young, 
And  wanted  to  be  and  to  do, 
I  puzzled  my  brains  about  choosing  my  line, 
Till  I  found  out  the  way  that  things  go. 

The  same  piece  of  clay  makes  a  tile, 

A  pitcher,  a  taw,  or  a  brick  : 

Dan  Horace  knew  life  ;  you  may  cut  out  a  saint, 

Or  a  bench,  from  the  self-same  stick. 

The  urchin  who  squalls  in  a  gaol, 
By  circumstance  turns  out  a  rogue ; 
While  the  castle-born  brat  is  a  senator  born, 
Or  a  saint,  if  religion  's  in  vogue. 

We  fall  on  our  legs  in  this  world, 

Blind  kittens,  tossed  in  neck  and  heels : 

'T  is  Dame  Circumstance  licks  Nature's  cubs  into  shape, 

She 's  the  mill-head,  if  we  are  the  wheels. 

Then  why  puzzle  and  fret,  plot  and  dream  ? 
He  that 's  wise  will  just  follow  his  nose  ; 


SCENE  II.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  1 93 

Contentedly  fish,  while  he  swims  with  the  stream ; 
'T  is  no  business  of  his  where  it  goes. 

Eliz.  Far  too  well  sung  for  such  a  saucy  song. 
So  go. 

Fool.  Ay,  I  '11  go.     Whip  the  dog  out  of  church,  and  then 
rate  him  for  being  no  Christian.  [Exit  Fool. 

Eliz.  Guta,  there  is  sense  in  that  knave's  ribaldry : 
We  must  not  thus  baptize  our  idleness, 
And  call  it  resignation  :  Which  is  love  ? 
To  do  God's  will,  or  merely  suffer  it  ? 
I  do  not  love  that  contemplative  life  : 
No  !  I  must  headlong  into  seas  of  toil, 
Leap  forth  from  self,  and  spend  my  soul  on  others. 
Oh !  contemplation  palls  upon  the  spirit, 
Like  the  chill  silence  of  an  autumn  sun  : 
While  action,  like  the  roaring  south-west  wind, 
Sweep  laden  with  elixirs,  with  rich  draughts 
Quickening  the  wombed  earth. 

Guta.  And  yet  what  bliss, 

When  dying  in  the  darkness  of  God's  light, 
The  soul  can  pierce  these  blinding  webs  of  nature, 
And  float  up  to  The  Nothing,  which  is  all  things  — 
The  ground  of  being,  where  self-forgetful  silence 
Is  emptiness,  —  emptiness  fulness,  —  fulness  God, — 
Till  we  touch  Him,  and  like  a  snow-flake,  melt 
Upon  His  light-sphere's  keen  circumference  ! 

Eliz.  Hast  thou  felt  this  ? 

Guta.  In  part. 

Eliz.  Oh,  happy  Guta ! 

Mine  eyes  are  dim  —  and  what  if  I  mistook 
For  God's  own  self,  the  phantoms  of  my  brain  ? 
And  who  am  I,  that  my  own  will's  intent 
Should  put  me  face  to  face  with  the  living  God  ? 


194  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

I,  thus  thrust  clown  from  the  still  lakes  of  thought 

Upon  a  boiling  crater-field  of  labor. 

No  !  He  must  come  to  me,  not  I  to  Him ; 

If  I  see  God,  beloved,  I  must  see  Him 

In  mine  own  self:  — 

Guta.  Thyself  ? 

Eliz.  Why  start,  my  sister  ? 

God  is  revealed  in  the  crucified : 
The  crucified  must  be  revealed  in  me  :  — 
I  must  put  on  His  righteousness ;  show  forth 
His  sorrow's  glory  ;  hunger,  weep  with  Him; 
Writhe  with  His  stripes,  and  let  this  aching  flesh 
Sink  through  His  fiery  baptism  into  death, 
That  I  may  rise  with  Him,  and  in  His  likeness 
May  ceaseless  heal  the  sick,  and  soothe  the  sad, 
And  give  away  like  Him  this  flesh  and  blood 
To  feed  His  lambs — ay —  we  must  die  with  Him 
To  sense  —  and  love  — 

Guta.  To  love  ?    What  then  becomes 

Of  marriage  vows  ? 

Eliz.  I  know  it  —  so  speak  not  of  them. 

Oh  !  that 's  the  flow,  the  chasm  in  all  my  longings, 
Which  I  have  spanned  with  cobweb  arguments, 
Yet  yawns  before  me  still,  where'er  I  turn, 
To  bar  me  from  perfection  ;  had  I  given 
My  virgin  all  to  Christ !  I  was  not  worthy ! 
I  could  not  stand  alone  ! 

Guta.  Here  comes  your  husband. 

Eliz.  He  comes  !  my  sun !  and  every  thrilling  vein 
Proclaims  my  weakness. 

LEWIS  enters. 

Leivis.  Good  news,  my  Princess ;  in  the  street  below 
Conrad,  the  man  of  God  from  Marpurg,  stands, 


SCEN  E  i  r.  THE  SAINT 'S   TRA  GED  Y.  195 

s 

And  from  a  bourne-stone  to  the  simple  folk 

Does  thunder  doctrine,  preaching  faith,  repentance, 

And  dread  of  all  foul  heresies;  his  eyes 

On  heaven  still  set,  save  when  with  searching  frown 

He  lours  upon  the  crowd,  who  round  him  cower 

Like  quails  beneath  the  hawk,  and  gape,  and  tremble, 

Now  raised  to  heaven,  now  down  again  to  hell.         , 

I  stood  beside  and  heard ;  like  any  doe's 

My  heart  did  rise  and  fall. 

Eliz.  Oh,  let  us  hear  him  ! 

We  too  need  warning ;  shame,  if  we  let  pass, 
Unentertained,  God's  angels  on  their  way. 
Send  for  him,  brother. 

Lewis.  Let  a  knight  go  down 

And  say  to  the  holy  man,  the  Landgrave  Lewis 
With  humble  greetings  prays  his  blessedness 
To  make  these  secular  walls  the  spirit's  temple 
At  least  to-night. 

Eliz.  Now  go,  my  ladies,  both  — 

Prepare  fit  lodgings,  —  let  your  courtesies 
Retain  in  our  poor  courts  the  man  of  God. 

\Exeunt.     LEWIS  and  ELIZABETH  are  left  alone- 
Now  hear  me,  best  beloved  :  —  I  have  marked  this  man  : 
And  that  which  hath  scared  others,  draws  me  towards  him  : 
He  has  the  graces  which  I  want ;  his  sternness 
I  envy  for  its  strength ;  his  fiery  boldness 
I  call  the  earnestness  which  dares  not  trifle 
With  life's  huge  stake  ;  his  coldness  but  the  calm 
Of  one  who  long  hath  found,  and  keeps  unwavering, 
Clear  purpose  still ;  he  hath  the  gift  which  speaks 
The  deepest  things  most  simply ;  in  his  eye 
I  dare  be  happy  —  weak  I  dare  not  be. 
With  such  a  guide,  —  to  save  this  little  heart — 
The  burden  of  self-rule  —  Oh  —  half  my  work 


196  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

Were  eased,  and  I  could  live  for  thee  and  thine, 
And  take  no  thought  of  self.     Oh,  be  not  jealous, 
Mine  own,  mine  idol !     For  thy  sake  I  ask  it  — 
I  would  but  be  a  mate  and  help  more  meet 
For  all  thy  knightly  virtues. 

Lewis.  'T  is  too  true ! 

I  have  felt  it  long ;  we  stand,  two  weakling  children, 
Under  too  huge  a  burden,  while  temptations 
Like  adders  swarm  up  round  :  I  must  be  led  — 
But  thou  alone  shalt  lead  me. 

Eliz.  I  ?  beloved  ! 

This  load  more  ?     Strengthen,  Lord,  the  feeble  knees ! 

Lewis.    Yes !  thou,  my  queen,   who   making  thyself   once 

mine, 

Hast  made  me  sevenfold  thine;  I  own  thee  guide 
Of  my  devotions,  mine  ambition's  loadstar, 
The  Saint  whose  shrine  I  serve  with  lance  and  lute ; 
If  thou  wilt  have  a  ruler,  let  him  be, 
Through  thee,  the  ruler  of  thy  slave.  [Kneels  to  her. 

Eliz.  Oh,  kneel  not  — 

But  grant  my  prayer  —  If  we  shall  find  this  man, 
As  well  I  know  him,  worthy,  let  him  be 
Director  of  my  conscience  and  my  actions 
With  all  but  thee  —  Within  love's  inner  shrine 
We  shall  be  still  alone  —  But  joy  !  here  comes 
Our  embassy,  successful. 

Enter  CONRAD,  with  COUNT  WALTER,  Monks , 

Ladies,  etc. 

Conrad.    Peace  to  this  house. 

Eliz.  Hail  to  your  holiness. 

Lewis.    The  odor  of  your  sanctity  and  might, 
With  balmy  steam  and  gales  of  Paradise, 
Forestalls  you  hither. 


SCENE n.  THE  SAIXTS  TRACT: DY.  197 

JEliz.  Bless  us  doubly,  master, 

With  holy  doctrine,  and  with  holy  prayers. 

Con.  Children,  I  am  the  servant  of  Christ's  servants  — 
And  needs  must  yield  to  those  who  may  command 
By  right  of  creed  ;  I  do  accept  your  bounty  — 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  that  priceless  name, 
Whose  dread  authority  and  due  commission, 
Attested  by  the  seal  of  His  vicegerent, 
I  bear  unworthy  here ;  through  my  vile  lips 
Christ  and  His  vicar  thank  you  ;  on  myself  — 
And  these,  my  brethren,  Christ's  adopted  poor  — 
A  menial's  crust,  and  some  waste  nook,  or  dog-hutch, 
Wherein  the  worthless  flesh  may  nightly  hide, 
Are  best  bestowed. 

Ellz.  You  shall  be  where  you  will  — 

Do  what  you  will ;  unquestioned,  unobserved, 
Enjoy,  refrain  ;  silence  and  solitude, 
The  better  part  which  such  like  spirits  choose, 
We  will  provide  ;  only  be  you  our  master, 
And  we  your  servants,  for  a  few  short  days  : 
Oh,  blessed  days  ! 

Con.  Ah,  be  not  hasty,  madam  ; 

Think  whom  you  welcome  ;  one  who  has  no  skill 
To  wink  and  speak  smooth  things ;  whom  fear  of  God 
Constrains  to  daily  wrath ;  who  brings,  alas ! 
A  sword,  not  peace  :  within  whose  bones  the  word 
Burns  like  a  pent-up  fire,  and  makes  him  bold 
If  aught  in  you  or  yours  shall  seem  amiss, 
To  cry  aloud  and  spare  not ;  let  me  go  — 
To  pray  for  you  —  as  I  have  done  long  time, 
Is  sweeter  than  to  chide  you. 

Eliz.  Then  your  prayers 

Shall  drive  home  your  rebukes :  for  both  we  need  you  — 
Our  snares  are  many,  and  our  sins  are  more. 


198  77//i   SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

So  say  not  nay  —  I  '11  speak  with  you  apart. 

[ELIZABETH  and  CONRAD  retire. 

Lewis  (aside).   Well,  Walter  mine,  how  like  you  the  good 
legate  ? 

Wai.    Walter  has  seen  naught  of  him  but  his  eye ; 
And  that  don't  please  him. 

Lewis.  How  so,  sir !  that  face 

Is  pure  and  meek  —  a  calm  and  thoughtful  eye. 

Wai.  A  shallow,  stony,  steadfast  eye ;  that  looks  at 
neither  man  nor  beast  in  the  face,  but  at  something  invisible 
a  yard  before  him,  through  you  and  past  you,  at  a  fascination, 
a  ghost  of  fixed  purposes  that  haunts  him,  from  which  neither 
reason  nor  pity  will  turn  him.  I  have  seen  such  an  eye  in 
men  possessed  —  with  devils,  or  with  self:  sleek,  passionless 
men,  who  are  too  refined  to  be  manly,  and  measure  their 
grace  by  their  effeminacy  ;  crooked  vermin,  who  swarm  up  in 
pious  times,  being  drowned  out  of  their  earthly  haunts  by  the 
spring-tide  of  religion ;  and  so  making  a  gain  of  godliness, 
swim  upon  the  first  of  the  flood,  till  it  cast  them  ashore  on 
the  firm  beach  of  wealth  and  station.  I  always  mistrust  those 
wall-eyed  saints. 

Lewis.    Beware,  Sir  Count ;  your  keen  and  worldly  wit 
Is  good  for  worldly  uses,  not  to  tilt 
Withal  at  holy  men  and  holy  things. 
He  pleases  well  the  spiritual  sense 
Of  my  most  peerless  lady,  whose  discernment 
Is  still  the  touchstone  of  my  grosser  fancy : 
He  is  her  friend,  and  mine  :  and  you  must  love  him 
Even  for  our  sakes   alone.     (To  a  bystander)   A  word  with 
you,  sir. 

[In   the  meantime  ELIZABETH   and  CONRAD   are  talking  to- 
gether^ 
Eliz.    I  would  be  taught  — 


SCENE  I r.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  199 

Con.  It  seems  you  claim  some  knowledge, 

By  choosing  thus  your  teacher. 

Eliz.  I  would  know  more 

Con.   Go  then  to  the  schools  —  and  be  no  wiser,  madam  ; 
And  let  God's  charge  here  run  to  waste,  to  seek 
The  bitter  fruit  of  knowledge  —  hunt  the  rainbow 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  while  wisdom  rusts  at  home. 

Eliz.    I  would  be  holy,  master  — 

Con.  Be  so,  then. 

God's  will  stands  fair  :  't  is  thine  which  fails,  if  any. 

Eliz.    I  would  know  how  to  rule  — 

Con.  Then  must  thou  learn 

The  needs  of  subjects,  and  be  ruled  thyself. 
Sink,  if  thou  longest  to  rise  ;  become  most  small  — 
The  strength  which  comes  by  weakness  makes  thee  great. 

Eliz.    I  will. 

Lewis.   What,  still  at  lessons  ?     Come,  my  fairest  sister, 
Usher  the  holy  man  unto  his  lodgings.  \Exeunt. 

Wai.  (alone].  -So,  so,  the  birds  are  limed :  —  Heaven  grant 
that  we  do  not  soon  see  them  stowed  in  separate  cages.  Well, 
here  my  prophesying  ends.  I  shall  go  to  my  lands,  and  see 
how  much  the  gentlemen  my  neighbors  have  stolen  off  them 
the  last  week,  —  Priests  ?  Frogs  in  the  king's  bedchamber ! 
What  says  the  song  ? 

I  once  had  a  hound,  a  right  good  hound, 

A  hound  both  fleet  and  strong : 

He  ate  at  my  board,  and  he  slept  by  my  bed, 

And  ran  with  me  all  the  day  long. 

But  my  wife  took  a  priest,  a  shaveling  priest, 

And  "  such  friendships  are  carnal,"  quoth  he. 

So  my  wife  and  her  priest  they  drugged  the  poor  beast, 

And  the  rat's-bane  is  waiting  for  me. 


200  THE  SA/.VT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Gateway  of  a  Convent.     Night. 

Enter  CONRAD. 
Con.    This  night  she  swears  obedience  to  me  !     Wondrous 

Lord  ! 

How  hast  Thou  opened  a  path,  where  my  young  dreams 
May  find  fulfilment :  there  are  prophecies 
Upon  her,  make  me  bold.     Why  comes  she  not  ? 
She  should  be  here  by  now.     Strange,  how  I  shrink  — 
I,  who  ne'er  yet  felt  fear  of  man  or  fiend. 
Obedience  to  my  will !     An  awful  charge  ! 
But  yet,  to  have  the  training  of  her  sainthood ; 
To  watch  her  rise  above  this  wild  world's  waves 
Like  floating  water-lily,  towards  heaven's  light 
Opening  its  virgin  snows,  with  golden  eye 
Mirroring  the  golden  sun  ;  to  be  her  champion, 
And  war  with  fiends  for  her ;  that  were  a  "quest ;" 
That  were  true  chivalry  ;  to  bring  my  Judge 
This  jewel  for  His  crown  ;  this  noble  soul, 
Worth  thousand  prudish  clods  of  barren  clay, 
Who  mope  for  heaven  because  earth's  grapes  are  sour  — 
Her,  full  of  youth,  flushed  with  the  heart's  rich  first-fruits, 
Tangled  in  earthly  pomp  —  and  earthly  love. 
Wife  ?  Saint  by  her  face  she  should  be  :  with  such  looks 
The  queen  of  heaven,  perchance,  slow  pacing  came 
Adown  our  sleeping  wards,  when  Dominic 
Sank  fainting,  drunk  with  beauty:  — she  is  most  fair  ! 
Pooh  !  I  know  nought  of  fairness  —  this  I  know, 
She  calls  herself  my  slave,  with  such  an  air 
As  speaks  her  queen,  not  slave  ;  that  shall  be  looked  to  — 
She  must  be  pinioned,  or  she  will  range  abroad 
Upon  too  bold  a  wing ;  't  will  cost  her  pain  — 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINTS    TRAGEDY.  2OI 

13 ut  what  of  that  ?  there  are  worse  things  than  pain  — 
What !  not  yet  here  ?     I  '11  in,  and  there  await  her 
In  prayer  before  the  altar :  I  have  need  on  't : 
And  shall  have  more  before  this  harvest 's  ripe. 

As  CONRAD  goes  out,  ELIZABETH,  ISENTRUDIS,  and  GUTA  enter. 

Eliz.    I  saw  him  just  before  us  :  let  us  onward ;     We  must 
not  seem  to  loiter. 

Isen.  Then  you  promise 

Exact  obedience  to  his  sole  direction 
Henceforth  in  every  scruple  ? 

Eliz.  In  all  I  can, 

And  be  a  wife. 

Guta.  Is  it  not  a  double  bondage  ? 

A  husband's  will  is  clog  enough.     Be  sure, 
Though  free,  I  crave  more  freedom. 

Eliz.  So  do  I  — 

This  servitude  shall  free  me  —  from  myself. 
Therefore  I  '11  swear. 

Isen.  To  what  ? 

Eliz.  I  know  not  wholly  : 

But  this  I  know,  that  I  shall  swear  to-night 
To  yield  my  will  unto  a  wiser  will ; 
To  see  God's  truth  through  eyes  which,  like  the  eagle's, 
From  higher  Alps  undazzled  eye  the  sun. 
Compelled  to  discipline  from  which  my  sloth 
Would  shrink,  unbidden,  —  to  deep  devious  paths 
Which  my  dull  sight  would  miss,  I  now  can  plunge, 
And  dare  life's  eddies  fearless. 

Isen.  You  will  repent  it. 

Eliz.    I  do  repent,  even  now.     Therefore  I  '11  swear. 
And  bind  myself  to  that,  which  once  being  right, 
Will  not  be  less  right,  when  I  shrink  from  it. 
No  ;  if  the  end  be  gained  —  if  I  be  raised 


202  77//<;  .Y.//.V7'\y    TKAGEDY.  ACT  IT. 

To  freer,  nobler  use,  I  '11  dare,  I  '11  welcome 

Him  and  his  means,  though  they  were  racks  and  flames. 

Come,  ladies,  let  us  in,  and  to  the  chapel.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Chamber.     GUTA,  ISENTRUDIS,  and  a  Lady. 

Lady.    Doubtless  she  is  most  holy  —  but  for  wisdom  — 
Say  if  "t  is  wise  to  spurn  all  rules,  all  censures, 
And  mountebank  it  in  the  public  ways 
Till  she  becomes  a  jest  ? 

Isen.  How  's  this  ? 

Lady.  For  one  thing — 

Yestreen  I  passed  her  in  the  open  street, 
Following  the  vocal  line  of  chanting  priests, 
Clad  in  rough  serge,  and  with  her  bare  soft  feet 
Wooing  the  ruthless  flints  ;  the  gaping  crowd 
Unknowing  whom  they  held,  did  thrust  and  jostle 
Her  tender  limbs ;  she  saw  me  as  she  passed  — 
And  blushed  and  veiled  her  face,  and  smiled  withal. 

Isen.    Oh,  think,  she  's  not  seventeen  yet. 

Guta.  Why  expect 

Wisdom  with  love  in  all  ?     Each  has  his  gift  — 
Our  souls  are  organ  pipes  of  diverse  stop 
And  various  pitch ;  each  with  its  proper  notes 
Thrilling  beneath  the  self-same  breath  of  God. 
Though  poor  alone,  yet  joined,  they  're  harmony. 
Besides  these  higher  spirits  must  not  bend 
To  common  methods;  in  their  inner  world 
They  move  by  broader  laws,  at  whose  expression 
We  must  adore,  not  cavil  :  here  she  comes  — 
The  ministering  Saint,  fresh  from  the  poor  of  Christ. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  203 

ELIZABETH   enters   without  cloak  or  shoes,  carrying  an  empty 

basket. 

fsen.   What 's  here,  my  princess  ?     Guta,  fetch  her  robes ! 
Rest,  rest,  my  child  ! 

Eliz.  (throwing  herself  on  a  seat).    Oh  !  I  have  seen  such 

things ! 

I  shudder  still ;  your  bright  looks  dazzle  me ; 
As  those  who  long  in  hideous  darkness  pent 
Blink  at  the  daily  light ;  this  room  's  too  gay  ! 
We  sit  in  a  cloud,  and  sing,  like  pictured  angels, 
And  say,  the  world  runs  smooth  —  while  right  below 
Welters  the  black  fermenting  heap  of  life 
On  which  our  state  is  built :  I  saw  this  day 
What  we  might  be,  and  still  be  Christian  women  : 
And  mothers  too  —  I  saw  one,  laid  in  childbed 
These  three  cold  weeks  upon  the  black  damp  straw; 
No  nurses,  cordials,  or  that  nice  parade 
With  which  we  try  to  balk  the  curse  of  Eve  — 
And  yet  she  laughed,  and  showed  her  buxom  boy, 
And  said,  Another  week,  so  please  the  Saints, 
She  'd  be  at  work  a-field.     Look  here  —  and  here  — 

[Pointing  round  the  room. 

I  saw  no  such  things  there ;  and  yet  they  lived. 
Our  wanton  accidents  take  root,  and  grow 
To  vaunt  themselves  God's  laws,  until  our  clothes, 
Our  gems,  and  gaudy  books,  and  cushioned  litters 
Become  ourselves,  and  we  would  fain  forget 
There  live  who  need  them  not.  [GUTA  offers  to  robe  her. 

Let  be,  beloved  — 

I  will  taste  somewhat  this  same  poverty  — 
Try  these  temptations,  grudges,  gnawing  shames, 
For  which  't  is  blamed  ;  how  probe  an  unfelt  evil  ? 
Would'st  be  the  poor  man's  friend  ?     Must  freeze  with  him  — 
Test  sleepless  hunger  —  let  thy  crippled  back 


204  77//';   •SWA; ~7"s   TRAGKDY.  ACT  ir. 

Ache  o'er  the  endless  furrow  ;  how  was  He, 

The  blessed  One,  made  perfect  ?     Why,  by  grief  — 

The  fellowship  of  voluntary  grief  — 

He  read  the  tear-stained  book  of  poor  men's  souls, 

As  I  must  learn  to  read  it.     Lady  !  lady ! 

Wear  but  one  robe  the  less  —  forego  one  meal  — 

And  thou  shalt  taste  the  core  of  many  tales 

Which  now  flit  past  thee,  like  a  minstrel's  songs, 

The  sweeter  for  their  sadness. 

Lady.  Heavenly  wisdom ! 

Forgive  me ! 

Eliz.    How  ?     What  wrong  is  mine,  fair  dame  ? 

Lady.    I  thought  you,  to  my  shame  —  less  wise  than  holy. 
But  you  have  conquered  :  I  will  test  these  sorrows 
On  mine  own  person ;  I  have  toyed  too  long 
In  painted  pinnace  down  the  stream  of  life, 
Witched  with  the  landscape,  while  the  weary  rowers 
Faint  at  the  groaning  oar:  I  '11  be  thy  pupil. 
Farewell.     Heaven  bless  thy  labors  and  thy  lesson.        \Exit. 

Isen.    We  are  alone.     Now  tell  me,  clearest  lady, 
How  came  you  in  this  plight  ? 

Eliz.  Oh  !  chide  not,  nurse  — 

My  heart  is  full  —  and  yet  I  went  not  far  — 
Even  here,  close  by,  where  my  own  bower  looks  down 
Upon  that  unknown  sea  of  wavy  roofs, 
I  turned  into  an  alley  'neath  the  wall  — 
And  stepped  from  earth  to  hell.  —  The  light  of  heaven, 
The  common  air,  was  narrow,  gross,  and  dun  ; 
The  tiles  did  drop  from  the  eaves ;  the  unhinged  doors 
Tottered  o'er  inky  pools,  where  reeked  and  curdled 
The  offal  of  a  life;  the  gaunt-haunched  swine 
Growled  at  their  christened  playmates  o'er  the  scraps. 
Shrill  mothers  cursed ;  wan  children  wailed  ;  sharp  coughs 
Rang  through  the  crazy  chambers  ;  hungry  eyes 


SCENE  iv.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  2O$ 

Glared  dumb  reproach,  and  old  perplexity, 

Too  stale  for  words  ;  o'er  still  and  webless  looms 

The  listless  craftsmen  through  their  elf-locks  scowled ; 

These  were  my  people  !  all  I  had,  I  gave  — 

They  snatched  it  thankless  (was  it  not  their  own  ? 

Wrung  from  their  veins,  returning  all  too  late  ?) ; 

Or  in  the  new  delight  of  rare  possession, 

Forgot  the  giver ;  one  did  sit  apart, 

And  shivered  on  a  stone  ;  beneath  her  rags 

Nestled  two  impish,  fleshless,  leering  boys, 

Grown  old  before  their  youth  ;  they  cried  for  bread  — 

She  chid  them  down,  and  hid  her  face  and  wept ; 

I  had  given  all  —  I  took  my  cloak,  my  shoes 

(What  could  I  else  ?     'T  was  but  a  moment's  want 

Which  she  had  borne,  and  borne,  day  after  day), 

And  clothed  her  bare  gaunt  arms  and  purpled  feet, 

Then  slunk  ashamed  away  to  wealth  and  honor. 

CONRAD  enters. 

What  !  Conrad  ?  unannounced  !     This  is  too  bold  ! 
Peace  !  I  have  lent  myself  —  and  I  must  take 
The  usury  of  that  loan  :  your  pleasure,  master? 

Con.    Madam,  but  yesterday,  I  bade  your  presence, 
To  hear  the  preached  word  of  God  ;  I  preached  — 
And  yet  you  came  not.  —  Where  is  now  your  oath  ? 
Where  is  the  right  to  bid,  you  gave  to  me  ? 
Am  I  your  ghostly  guide  ?     I  asked  it  not. 
Of  your  own  will  you  tendered  that,  which,  given, 
Became  not  choice,  but  duty.  —  What  is  here  ? 
Think  not  that  alms,  or  lowly-seeming  garments, 
Self-willed  humilities,  pride's  decent  mummers, 
Can  raise  above  obedience ;  she  from  God 
Her  sanction  draws,  while  these  we  forge  ourselves, 
Mere  tools  to  clear  her  necessary  path. 
Go  free —  thou  art  no  slave  :  God  doth  not  own 


206  THE   SAIA'T'S   TRAGEJ^Y.  ACT  ir. 

Unwilling  service,  and  His  ministers 

Must  lure,  not  drag  in  leash ;  henceforth  I  leave  thee  : 

Riot  in  thy  self-willed  fancies  ;  pick  thy  steps 

By  thine  own  will-o'-the-wisp  toward  the  pit ; 

Farewell,  proud  girl.  [Exit  CONRAD. 

Eliz.  Oh,  God  !     What  have  I  done  ? 

I  have  cast  off  the  clue  of  this  world's  maze, 
And,  like  an  idiot,  let  my  boat  adrift 
Above  the  waterfall !  —  I  had  no  message  — 
How 's  this  ? 

Isen.   We  passed  it  by,  as  matter  of  no  moment 
Upon  the  sudden  coming  of  your  guests. 

Eliz.    No  moment !    'T  is  enough  to  have  driven  him  forth—* 
And  that's  enough  to  damn  me  :  I  '11  not  chide  you  — 
I  can  see  nothing  but  my  loss ;  I  '11  to  him  — 
I  '11  go  in  sackcloth,  bathe  his  feet  with  tears  — 
And  know  nor  sleep  nor  food  till  I  am  forgiven  — 
And  you  must  with  me,  ladies.     Come  and  find  him.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

A  Hall  in  the  Castle.     In  the  background  a  Group  of  diseased 

and  deformed  Beggars  ;  CONRAD  entering,  ELIZABETH  comes 
forward  to  meet  him. 

Con.    What  dost  thou,  daughter  ? 

Eliz.  Ah,  my  honored  master ! 

That  name  speaks  pardon,  sure. 

Con.  What  dost  thou,  daughter  ? 

Eliz.    I  have  been  washing  these  poor  people's  feet. 

Con.    A  wise  humiliation. 

Eliz.  So  I  meant  it  — 

And  use  it  as  a  penance  for  my  pride  ;  ' 

And  yet,  alas,  through  my  own  vulgar  likings 
Or  stubborn  self-conceit,  't  is  none  to  me. 


SCENE  v.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  2O? 

I  marvel  how  the  Saints  thus  tamed  their  spirits  : 
Sure  to  be  humbled  by  such  toil,  but  proves, 
Not  cures,  our  lofty  mind. 

Con.  Thou  speakest  well  — 

The  knave  who  serves  unto  another's  needs 
Knows  himself  abler  than  the  man  who  needs  him ; 
And  she  who  stoops,  will  not  forget,  that  stooping 
Implies  a  height  to  stoop  from. 

Eliz.  Could  I  see 

My  Saviour  in  His  poor  ! 

Con.  Thou  shalt  hereafter  : 

But  now  to  wash  Christ's  feet  were  dangerous  honor 
For  weakling  grace ;  would  you  be  humble,  daughter, 
You  must  look  up,  not  down,  and  see  yourself 
A  paltry  atom,  sap-transmitting  vein 
Of  Christ's  vast  vine  ;  the  prettiest  joint  and  member 
Of  His  great  body  ;  own  no  strength,  no  will, 
Save  that  which  from  the  ruling  head's  command 
Through  me,  as  nerve,  derives;  let  thyself  die  — 
And  dying,  rise  again  to  fuller  life. 
To  be  a  whole  is  to  be  small  and  weak  — 
To  be  a  part  is  to  be  great  and  mighty 
In  the  one  spirit  of  the  mighty  whole  — 
The  spirit  of  the  martyrs  and  the  saints  — 
The  spirit  of  the  queen,  on  whose  towered  neck 
We  hang,  blest  ringlets ! 

Eliz.  Why  !  thine  eyes  flash  fire  ! 

Con.    But  hush  !  such  words  are  not  for  courts  and  halls  — • 
Alone  with  God  and  me,  thou  shalt  hear  more. 

[Exit  CONRAD. 

Eliz.   As  when  rich  chanting  ceases  suddenly  — 
And  the  rapt  sense  collapses !  —  Oh,  that  Lewis 
Could  feed  my  soul  thus  !     But  to  work  —  to  work  — 
What  wilt  thou,  little  maid  ?     Ah,  I  forgot  thee  — 


208  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

Thy  mother  lies  in  childbed  —  Say,  in  time 

I  '11  bring  the  baby  to  the  font  myself. 

It  knits  them  unto  me,  and  me  to  them, 

That  bond  of  sponsorship  —  How  now,  good  dame  — 

Whence  then  so  sad  ? 

Woman.  An  't  please  your  nobleness, 

My  neighbor  Gretl  is  with  her  husband  laid 
In  burning  fever. 

Eliz.  I  will  come  to  them. 

Woman.    Alack,  the  place  is  foul  for  such  as  you  ; 
And  fear  of  plague  has  cleared  the  lane  of  lodgers  ; 
If  you  could  send  - 

What  ?  where  I  am  afraid 


To  go  myself,  send  others  ?     That  's  strange  doctrine. 

I  '11  be  with  you  anon.  [Goes  up  into  the  Hall. 

ISENTRUDIS  enters  with  a  basket. 
Iscn.   Why,    here's    a    weight  —  these    cordials    now,    and 

simples, 

Want  a  stout  page  to  bear  them  ;  yet  her  fancy 
Is  still  to  go  alone,  to  help  herself.  — 
Where  will  't  all  end  ?     In  madness,  or  the  grave  ? 
No  limbs  can  stand  these  drudgeries  :  no  spirit 
The  fretting  harrow  which  this  ruffian  priest 
Calls  education  — 
Ah  !  here  comes  our  Count. 

[COUNT  WALTER  enters  as  from  a  journey  I\ 

Too  late,  sir,  and  too  seldom  —  Where  have  you  been 
These  four  months  past,  while  we  are  sold  for  bond-slaves 
Unto  a  peevish  friar  ? 

Wai.  Why,  my  fair  rosebud  — 

A  trifle  overblown,  but  not  less  sweet  — 
I  have  been  pining  for  you,  till  my  hair 
Is  as  gray  as  any  badger's. 


SCENE  v.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2OQ 

Ism.  I  '11  not  jest. 

Wai.    What  ?  has  my  wall-eyed  Saint  shown  you  his  temper  ? 

Isen.  The  first  of  his  peevish  fancies  was,  that  she  should 
eat  nothing  which  was  riot  honestly  and  peaceably  come  by. 

Wai.   Why,  I  heard  that  you  too  had  joined  that  sect. 

Isen.  And  more  fool  I.  But  ladies  are  bound  to  set  an 
example  —  while  they  are  not  bound  to  ask  where  everything 
comes  from  :  with  her,  poor  child,  scruples  and  starvation 
were  her  daily  diet;  meal  after  meal  she  rose  from  table 
empty,  unless  the  Landgrave  nodded  and  winked  her  to  some 
lawful  eatable;  till  she  that  used  to  take  her  food  like  an 
angel,  without  knowing  it,  was  thinking  from  morning  to 
night  whether  she  might  eat  this,  that,  or  the  other. 

Wai.  Poor  Eves !  if  the  world  leaves  you  innocent,  the 
Church  will  not.  Between  the  devil  and  the  director,  you 
are  sure  to  get  your  share  of  the  apples  of  knowledge. 

Isen.  True  enough.  She  complained  to  Conrad  of  her 
scruples,  and  he  told  her,  that  by  the  law  was  the  knowledge 
of  sin. 

Wai.    But  what  said  Lewis  ? 

Isen.  As  much  bewitched  as  she,  sir.  *  He  has  told  her, 
and  more  than  her,  that  were  it  not  for  the  laughter  and  ill- 
will  of  his  barons,  he  would  join  her  in  the  same  abstinence. 
But  all  this  is  child's  play  to  the  friar's  last  outbreak. 

Wai.  Ah !  the  sermon  which  you  all  forgot,  when  the 
Marchioness  of  Misnia  came  suddenly  ?  I  heard  that  war 
had  been  proclaimed  on  that  score  ;  but  what  terms  of  peace 
were  concluded  ? 

Isen.  Terms  of  peace !  Do  you  call  it  peace  to  be 
delivered  over  to  his  nuns'  tender  mercies,  myself  and  Guta, 
as  well  as  our  lady,  —  as  if  we  had  been  bond-slaves  and 
blackamoors  ? 

Wai.    You  need  not  have  submitted. 

Isen.    What!  could  I  bear  to  see  my  poor  child  wandering 


210  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

up  and  down,  wringing  her  hands  like  a  mad  woman  —  I  who 
have  lived  for  no  one  else  this  sixteen  years  ?  Guta  talked 
sentiment  —  called  it  a  glorious  cross,  and  so  forth. —  I  took 
it  as  it  came. 

Wai.    And  got  no  quarter,  I  '11  warrant. 

Isen.  Don't  talk  of  it  —  my  poor  back  tingles  at  the 
thought. 

Wai.    The  sweet  Saints  think  every  woman  of  the  world 
no  better  than  she  should  be ;  and  without  meaning  to  be 
envious,  owe  you  all  a  grudge  for  past  flirtations.     As  I  am 
a  knight,  now  it 's  over,  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  it. 
Isen.    What? 

Wai.  When  I  see  a  woman  who  will  stand  by  her  word, 
and  two  who  will  stand  by  their  mistress.  And  the  monk, 
too  —  there  's  mettle  in  him.  I  took  him  for  a  canting  carpet- 
haunter;  but  be  sure,  the  man  who  will  bully  his  own  patrons 
has  an  honest  purpose  in  him,  though  it  bears  strange  fruit 
on  this  wicked  hitherside  of  the  grave.  Now,  my  fair  nymph 
of  the  birchen-tree,  use  your  interest  to  find  me  supper  and 
lodging ;  for  your  elegant  squires  of  the  trencher  look  surly 
on  me  here :  I  am  the  prophet  who  has  no  honor  in  his 
own  country.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. 

Dawn.     A   rocky  path   leading  to   a  mountain    Chapel.      A 

Peasant  sitting  on  a  stone  with  dog  and  cross-low. 
Peasant  (singing). 

Over  the  wild  moor,  in  reddest  clawn  of  morning, 
Gaily  the  huntsman  down  green  droves  must  roam : 
Over  the  wild  moor,  in  grayest  wane  of  evening, 
Weary  the  huntsman  comes  wandering  home ; 

Home,  home, 
If  he  has  one.     Who  comes  here  ? 


SCENE  vi.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  211 

\_A  Woodcutter  enters  with  a  laden  ass.] 
What  art  going  about  ? 

Woodcutter.    To  warm  other  folks'  backs. 

Peas.  Thou  art  in  the  common  lot  —  Jack  earns  and  Gill 
spends  —  therein  lies  the  true  division  of  labor.  What 's  thy 
name  ? 

Woodc.  Be'est  a  keeper,  man,  or  a  charmer,  that  dost  so 
catechise  me  ? 

Peas.  Both  —  I  am  a  keeper,  for  I  keep  all  I  catch ;  and  a 
charmer,  for  I  drive  bad  spirits  out  of  honest  men's  turnips. 

Woodc.    Mary  sain  us,  what  be  they  like  ? 

Peas.  Four-legged  kitchens  of  leather,  cooking  farmers' 
crops  into  butcher's  meat  by  night,  without  leave  or  license. 

Woodc.    By  token,  thou  'rt  a  deer  stealer  ? 

Peas.  Stealer,  quoth  he  ?  I  have  dominion.  I  do  what  I 
like  with  mine  own. 

Woodc.    Thine  own  ? 

Peas.  Yea,  marry  —  for,  saith  the  priest,  man  has  dominion 
over  the  beast  of  the  field  and  the  fowl  of  the  air :  so  I,  being 
as  I  am  a  man,  as  men  go,  have  dominion  over  the  deer  in 
my  trade,  as  you  have  in  yours  over  sleepmice  and  wood- 
peckers. 

Woodc.   Then  every  man  has  a  right  to  be  a  poacher. 

Peas.  Every  man  has  his  gift,  and  the  tools  go  to  him  that 
can  use  them.  Some  are  born  workmen  ;  some  have  souls 
above  work.  I  'm  one  of  that  metal.  I  was  meant  to  own 
land,  and  do  nothing ;  but  the  angel  that  deals  out  babies' 
souls,  mistook  the  cradles,  and  spoilt  a  gallant  gentleman  ! 
Well  —  I  forgive  him  !  there  were  many  born  the  same  night 
—  nncl  work  wears  the  wits. 

Woodc.  I  had  sooner  draw  in  a  yoke  than  hunt  in  a  halter. 
Hadst  best  repent  and  mend  thy  ways. 

Peas.  The  wav-warden  may  do  that  :  I  wear  out  no  wavs, 
I  go  across  country.  Mend !  saith  he  ?  Why  I  can  but 


212  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

starve  at  worse,  or  groan  with  the  rheumatism,  which  you  do 
already.  And  who  would  reek  and  wallow  o'  nights  in  the 
same  straw,  like  a  stalled  cow,  when  he  may  have  his  choice 
of  all  the  clean  holly  bushes  in  the  forest  ?  Who  would  grub 
out  his  life  in  the  same  croft,  when  he  has  free-warren  of  all 
fields  between  this  and  Rhine  ?  Not  I.  I  have  dirtied  my 
share  of  spades  myself ;  but  I  slipped  my  leash  and  went  self- 
hunting. 

Woodc.  But  what  if  thou  be  caught  and  brought  up  before 
the  Prince  ? 

Peas.    He  don't  care  for  game.     He    has   put   down    his 

kennel,   and  keeps   a  tame  saint   instead  :  and  when   I   am 

/driven  in,  I  shall  ask  my  pardon  of  her  in  St.  John's  name. 

They  say  that  for  his  sake  she  '11  give  away  the  shoes  off  her 

feet. 

Woodc.  I  would  not  stand  in  your  shoes  for  all  the  top  and 
lop  in  the  forest.  Murder  !  Here  comes  a  ghost !  Run  up 
the  bank  —  shove  the  jackass  into  the  ditch. 

[A  white  figure  conies  up  the  path  with  lightsl\ 
Peas.    A  ghost  or  a  watchman,  and  one  's  as  bad  as  the 
other  —  so  we  may  take  to  cover  for  the  time. 

ELIZABETH  enters,  meanly  clad,  carrying  her  new-born  infant ; 

ISENTRUDIS  following  with   a   taper  and  gold  pieces  on  a 

salver.     ELIZABETH  passes,  singing. 
Deep  in  the  warm  vale  the  village  is  sleeping, 
Sleeping  the  firs  on  the  bleak  rock  above ; 
Nought  wakes,  save  grateful  hearts,  silently  creeping 
Up  to  the  Lord  in  the  might  of  their  love. 

What  Thou  hast  given  to  me,  Lord,  here  I  bring  Thee, 
Odor,  and  light,  and  the  magic  of  gold  ; 
Feet  which  must  follow  Thee,  lips  which  must  sing  Thee, 
Limbs  which  must  ache  for  Thee  ere  they  grow  old. 


SCENE  vr.  THE  SAINT^S   TRAGEDY. 


What  Thou  hast  given  to  me,  Lord,  here  I  tender, 
Life  of  mine  own  life,  the  fruit  of  my  love  ; 
Take  him,  yet  leave  him  me,  till  I  shall  render 
Count  of  the  precious  charge,  kneeling  above. 

[They  pass  up  the  path.     The  Peasants  come  outl\ 

Peas.  No  ghost,  but  a  mighty  pretty  wench,  with  a  mighty 
sweet  voice. 

Woodf.  Wench,  indeed  ?  Where  be  thy  manners  ?  'T  is 
her  Ladyship  —  the  Princess. 

Peas.  The  Princess  !  Ay,  I  thought  those  little  white  feet 
were  but  lately  out  of  broadcloth  —  still,  I  say,  a  mighty 
sweet  voice  —  I  wish  she  had  not  sung  so  sweetly  —  it  makes 
things  to  arise  in  a  body's  head,  does  that  singing  :  a  wonder- 
ful handsome  lady  !  a  royal  lady  ! 

Woodc.  But  a  most  unwise  one.  Did  ye  mind  the  gold  ? 
If  I  had  such  a  trencher  full,  it  should  sleep  warm  in  a 
stocking,  instead  of  being  made  a  brother  to  owls  here,  for 
every  rogue  to  snatch  at. 

Peas.   Why,  then  ?  who  dare  harm  such  as  her,  man  ? 

Woodc.  Nay,  nay,  none  of  us,  we  are  poor  folks,  we  fear 
God  and  the  king.  But  if  she  had  met  a  gentleman  now  — 
heaven  help  her!  Ah!  thou  hast  lost  a  chance  —  thou 
might's!  have  run  out  promiscuously,  and  down  on  thy  knees, 
and  begged  thy  pardon  for  the  new  comer's  sake.  There  was 
a  chance,  indeed. 

Peas.  Pooh,  man,  I  have  done  nothing  but  lose  chances  all 
my  days.  I  fell  into  the  fire  the  day  I  was  christened,  and 
ever  since  I  am  like  a  fresh-trimmed  fir-tree;  every  foul 
feather  sticks  to  me. 

Woodc.  Go,  shrive  thyself,  and  the  priest  will  scrub  off  thy 
turpentine  with  a  new  hair-cloth;  and  now,  good-day,  the 
maids  are  a-waiting  for  their  firewood. 

Peas.  A  word  before  you  go  —  Take  warning  by  me  — 
avoid  that  same  serpent,  wisdom  —  Pray  to  the  Saints  to 


214  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

make  you  a  blockhead  —  Never  send  your  boys  to  school — • 
For  Heaven  knows,  a  poor  man  that  will  live  honest,  and  die 
in  his  bed,  ought  to  have  no  more  scholarship  than  a  parson, 
and  no  more  brains  than  your  jackass. 


SCENE  VII. 

The  Gateway  of  a  Castle.     ELIZABETH  and  her  suite  standing 
at  the  top  of  a /light  of  steps.     Mob  below. 

Peas.    Bread  !  Bread  !  Bread  !  give  us  bread  ;  we  perish. 

\st  Voice.   Ay,  give,  give,  give !     God   knows,  we  're  long 
past  earning. 

zd  Voice.    Our  skeleton  children  lie  along  in  the  roads  — 

$d  Voice.    Our  sheep  drop  dead  about  the  frozen  leas  — 

%th  Voice.    Our  harness  and  our  shoes  are  boiled  for  food  — 

Old  Man's  Voice.   Starved,  withered,  autumn  hay  that  thanks 

the  scythe  ! 

Send  out  your  swordsmen,  mow  the  dry  bents  down, 
And  make  this  long  death  short  —  we  '11  never  struggle. 

All.    Bread!  Bread! 

Eliz.    Ay,  bread  —  Where  is  it,  knights  and  servants  ? 
Why  butler,  seneschal,  this  food  forthcomes  not ! 

Butler.    Alas,  we  've  eaten  all  ourselves  :  heaven  knows 
The  pages  broke  the  buttery  hatches  down  — 
The  boys  were  starved  almost. 

Voice  below.    Ay,  she  can  find  enough  to  feast  her  minions. 

Woman's  Voice.    How  can  she  know  what  't  is,  for  months 

and  months 

To  stoop  and  straddle  in  the  clogging  fallows, 
Bearing  about  a  living  babe  within  you  ? 
And  then  at  night  to  fat  yourself  and  it 
On  fir-bark,  madam,  and  water. 

Eliz.  My  good  dame  — 

That  which  you  bear,  I  bear :  for  food,  God  knows, 


SCENE  vii.  7 7/A1  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  21$ 

1  have  not  tasted  food  this  live-long  day  — 
Nor  will  till  you  are  served.     I  sent  for  wheat 
From  Koln  and  from  the  Rhine-land,  days  ago: 

0  God  !  why  comes  it  not  ? 

Enter  from  below,  COUNT  WALTER,  with  a  Merchant. 

Wai.    Stand  back  ;  you  '11  choke  me,  rascals  : 
Archers,  brings  up  those  mules.     Here  comes  the  corn  — 
Here  comes  your  guardian  angel,  plenty-laden, 
With  no  white  wings,  but  good  white  wheat,  my  boys, 
Quarters  on  quarters  —  if  you'll  pay  for  it. 

Eliz.    Oh  !  give  him  all  he  asks. 

Wai.  The  scoundrel  wants 

Three  times  its  value. 

Merchant.  Not  a  penny  less  — 

1  bought  it  on  speculation  —  I  must  live  — 
I  get  my  bread  by  buying  corn  that 's  cheap, 

And  selling  where  't  is  dearest.     Mass,  you  need  it, 
And  you  must  pay  according  to  your  need. 

Mob.    Hang   him  !    hang    all    regraters  —  hang   the   fore- 
stalling dog! 

Wai.    Driver,  lend  here  the  halter  off  that  mule. 

Eliz.    Nay,  Count ;  the  corn  is  his,  and  his  the  right 
To  fix  conditions  for  his  own. 

Mer.  Well  spoken  ! 

A  wise  and  royal  lady  !     She  will  see 
The  trade  protected.     Why,  I  kept  the  corn 
Three  months  on  venture.     Now,  so  help  me  Saints, 
I  am  a  loser  by  it,  quite  a  loser  — 
So  help  me  Saints,  I  am. 

Eliz.  You  will  not  sell  it 

Save  at  a  price  which,  by  the  bill  you  tender, 
Is  far  beyond  our  means.     Heaven  knows,  I  grudge  not  — 
I  have  sold  my  plate,  have  pawned  my  robes  and  jewels. 
Mortgaged  broad  lands  and  castles  to  buy  food  — 


2l6  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

And  now  I  have  no  more.  —  Abate,  cr  trust 
Our  honor  for  the  difference. 

Mer.  Not  a  penny  — 

I  trust  no  nobles.     I  must  make  my  profit  — 
I  '11  have,  my  price,  or  take  it  back  again. 

Eliz.    Most  miserable,  cold,  short-sighted  man, 
Who  for  thy  selfish  gains  dost  welcome  make 
God's  wrath,  and^Dattenest  on  thy  fellows'  \voes, 
What  ?  wilt  thou  turn  from  heaven's  gate,  open  to  thee, 
Through  which  thy  charity  may  passport  be, 
.And  win  thy  long  greed's  pardon  ?     Oh,  for  once 
Dare  to  be  great ;  show  mercy  to  thyself ! 
See  how  that  boiling  sea  of  human  heads 
W7aits  open-mouthed  to  bless  thee  :  speak  the  word, 
And  their  triumphant  quire  of  jubilation 
Shall  pierce  God's  cloudy  floor  with  praise  and  prayers, 
And  drown  the  accuser's  count  in  angels'  ears. 
\In  the  meantime  WALTER,  etc.,  have  been  throwing  down  the 
wheat  to  the  Mob^\ 

Mob.   God  bless  the  good  Count !  —  Bless  the  holy  Prin- 
cess — 
Hurrah  for  wheat  —  Hurrah  for  one  full  stomach. 

Mer.    Ah  !  that 's  my  wheat !  treason,  my  wheat,  my  money ! 

Eliz.    Where  is  the  wretch's  wheat  ? 

Wai.  Below,  my  lady ; 

We  counted  on  the  charm  of  your  sweet  words, 
And  so  did  for  him  what,  your  sermon  ended, 
He  would  have  done  himself. 

Knight.  'T  were  rude  to  doubt  it. 

Mer.    Ye  rascal  barons  ! 

What !  Are  we  burghers  monkeys  for  your  pastime  ? 
We  '11  clear  the  odds.  [Seizes  WALTER. 

Wai.    Soft,  friend  —  a  worm  will  turn. 

Voices  below.    Throw  him  down  ! 


SCENE  vii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2I/ 

Wai.  Dost  hear  that,  friend  ? 

Those  pups  are  keen-toothed  ;  they  have  eat  of  late 
Worse  bacon  to  their  bread  than  thee.     Come,  come, 
Put  up  thy  knife  ;  we  '11  give  thee  market-price  — 
And  if  thou  must  have  more  —  why,  take  it  out 
In  board  and  lodging  in  the  castle  dungeon. 

[WALTER  leads  him  out ;  the  Mob,  etc.,  disperse. 

Eliz.    Now  then  —  there  's  many  a  one  lies  faint  at  home  — 
I  '11  go  to  them  myself. 

If  en.  What  now  ?  start  forth 

In  this  most  bitter  frost,  so  thinly  clad  ? 

Eliz.    Tut,  tut,  I  wear  my  working  dress  to-day, 
And  those  who  work,  robe  lightly  — 

Isen.  Nay,  my  child, 

For  once  keep  up  your  rank. 

Eliz.  Then  I  had  best 

Roll  to  their  door  in  lacqueyed  equipage, 
And  dole  my  halfpence  from  my  satin  purse  — 
I  am  their  sister  —  I  must  look  like  one. 
I  am  their  queen  —  I  '11  prove  myself  the  greatest 
By  being  the  minister  of  all.     So  come  — 
Now  to  my  pastime,     (aside)  And  in  happy  toil 
Forget  this  whirl  of  doubt  —  We  are  weak,  we  are  weak. 
Only  when  still :  put  thou  thine  hand  to  the  plough, 
The  spirit  drives  thee  on. 

Isen.  You  live  too  fast ! 

Eliz.    Too  fast  ?     We  live  too  slow  —  our  gummy  blood 
Without  fresh  purging  airs  from  heaven,  would  choke 
Slower  and  slower,  till  it  stopped  and  froze. 
God !  fight  we  not  within  a  cursed  world, 
Whose  very  air  teems  thick  with  leagued  fiends  — 
Each  word  we  speak  has  infinite  effects  — 
Each  soul  we  pass  must  go  to  heaven  or  hell  — » 
And  this  our  one  chance  through  eternity 


2l8  THE  SAfXT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

To  drop  and  die,  like  dead  leaves  in  the  brake, 

Or  like  the  meteor  stone,  though  whelmed  itself, 

Kindle  the  dry  moors  into  fruitful  blaze  — 

And  yet  we  live  too  fast ! 

Be  earnest,  earnest,  earnest ;  mad,  if  thou  wilt : 

Do  what  thou  dost  as  if  the  stake  were  heaven, 

And  that  thy  last  deed  ere  the  judgment-day. 

When  all 's  done,  nothing 's  done.     There  's  rest  above  — 

Below  let  work  be  death,  if  work  be  love  !  \Excunt. 


SCENE  VIII. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Castle.     Counts  WALTER,  HUGO,  etc.,  Abbot, 
and  Knights. 

Count  Hugo.  I  can't  forget  it,  as  I  am  a  Christian  man. 
To  ask  for  a  stoup  of  beer  at  breakfast,  and  be  told  there 
was  no  beer  allowed  in  the  house  —  her  Ladyship  had  given 
all  the  malt  to  the  poor. 

Abbot.    To  give  away  the  staff  of  life,  eh  ? 

C.  Hugo.  The  life  itself,  Sir,  the  life  itself.  All  that 
barley,  that  would  have  warmed  many  an  honest  fellow's 
coppers,  wasted  in  filthy  cakes. 

Abbot.  The  parent  of  seraphic  ale  degraded  into  plebeian 
dough !  Indeed,  Sir,  we  have  no  right  to  lessen  wantonly 
the  amount  of  human  enjoyment ! 

C.  Wai.  In  heaven's  name,  what  would  you  have  her  do, 
while  the  people  were  eating  grass  ? 

C.  Hugo.  Nobody  asked  them  to  eat  it ;  nobody  asked 
them  to  be  there  to  eat  it ;  if  they  will  breed  like  rabbits,  let 
them  feed  like  rabbits,  say  I  —  I  never  married  till  I  could 
keep  a  wife. 

Abbot.  Ah,  Count  Walter!  How  sad  to  see  a  man  of 
your  sense  so  led  away  by  his  feelings!  Had  but  this 


SCENE  viii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2IQ 

dispensation  been  left  to  work  itself  out,  and  evolve  the 
blessing  implicit  in  all  heaven's  chastenings  !  Had  but  the 
stem  benevolences  of  providence  remained  undisturbed  by 
her  ladyship's  carnal  tenderness  —  what  a  boon  had  this 
famine  been  ! 

C.  Wai.    How  then,  man  ? 

Abbot.  How  many  a  poor  soul  would  be  lying — Ah,  blessed 
thought !  —  in  Abraham's  bosom ;  who  must  now  toil  on  still 
in  this  vale  of  tears  !  —  Pardon  this  pathetic  dew  —  I  cannot 
but  feel  as  a  Churchman. 

yl  Count.  Look  at  it  in  this  way,  Sir.  There  are  too 
many  of  us  —  too  many  —  Where  you  have  one  job  you  have 
three  workmen.  Why,  I  threw  three  hundred  acres  into 
pasture  myself  this  year  —  it  saves  money,  and  risk,  and 
trouble,  and  tithes. 

C.  Wai.  What  would  you  say  to  the  Princess,  who  talks  of 
breaking  up  all  her  parks  to  wheat  next  year  ? 

$d  Count.  Ask  her  to  take  on  the  thirty  families,  who  were 
just  going  to  tramp  off  those  three  hundred  acres  into  the 
Rhine-land,  if  she  had  not  kept  them  in  both  senses  this 
winter,  and  left  them  on  my  hands  —  once  beggars,  always 
beggars. 

C.  Hugo.  Well,  I  'm  a  practical  man,  and  I  say,  the  sharper 
the  famine,  the  higher  are  prices,  and  the  higher  I  sell,  the 
more  I  can  spend;  so  the  money  circulates,  Sir,  that's  the 
word  —  like  water  —  sure  to  run  downwards  again;  and  so 
it 's  as  broad  as  it 's  long ;  and  here  's  a  health  —  if  there  was 
any  beer  —  to  the  farmers'  friends,  "A  bloody  war  and  a  wet 
harvest." 

Abbot.  Strongly  put,  though  correctly.  For  the  self-interest 
of  each  it  is  which  produces  in  the  aggregate  the  happy 
equilibrium  of  all. 

C.  Wai.  Well —  the  world  is  right  well  made,  that's 
certain ;  and  He  who  made  the  Jews'  sin  our  salvation  may 


22O  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  n. 

bring  plenty  out  of  famine,  and  comfort  out  of  covetousness. 
But  look  you,  Sirs,  private  selfishness  may  be  public  weal, 
and  yet  private  selfishness  be  just  as  surely  damned,  for  all 
that. 

$d  Count.  I  hold,  Sir,  that  every  alms  is  a  fresh  badge  of 
slavery. 

C.  Wai.    I  don't  deny  it. 

$d  Count.    Then  teach  them  independence. 

C.  Wai.  How  ?  By  tempting  them  to  turn  thieves,  when 
begging  fails  ?  By  keeping  their  stomachs  just  at  desperation- 
point  ?  By  starving  them  out  here,  to  march  off,  starving  all 
the  way,  to  some  town,  in  search  of  employment,  of  which,  if 
they  find  it,  they  know  no  more  than  my  horse  ?  Likely  !  No, 
Sir,  to  make  men  of  them,  put  them  not  out  of  the  reach,  but 
out  of  the  need,  of  charity. 

yi  Count.  And  how,  prithee  ?  By  teaching  them,  like  our 
fair  Landgravine,  to  open  their  mouth  for  all  that  drops  ? 
Thuringia  is  become  a  kennel  of  beggars  in  her  hands. 

C.  Wai.    In  hers  ?     In  ours,  Sir  ! 

Abbot.  Idleness,  Sir,  deceit,  and  immorality,  are  the  three 
children  of  this  same  barbarous  self-indulgence  in  almsgiving. 
Leave  the  poor  alone.  Let  want  teach  them  the  need  of  self- 
exertion,  and  misery  prove  the  foolishness  of  crime. 

C.  Wai.  How  ?  Teach  them  to  become  men  by  leaving 
them  brutes  ? 

Abbot.  Oh,  Sir,  there  we  step  in,  with  the  consolations  and 
instructions  of  the  faith. 

C.  Wai.  Ay,  but  while  the  grass  is  growing  the  steed  is 
starving  ;  and  in  the  meantime,  how  will  the  callow  chick 
Grace,  stand  against  the  tough  old  gamecock  Hunger  ? 

•$d  Count.  Then  how,  in  the  name  of  patience,  would  you 
have  us  alter  things? 

C.  Wai.  We  cannot  alter  them,  Sir  —  but  they  will  be 
altered,  never  fear. 


SCENE  viii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  221 

Omnes.    How  ?     How  ? 

C.  Wai.  Do  you  see  this  hour-glass  ?  —  Here's  the  state: 
This  air  stands  for  the  idlers;  —  this  sand  for  the  workers. 
When  all  the  sand  has  run  to  the  bottom,  God  in  heaven  just 
turns  the  hour-glass,  and  then  — 

C.  Hugo.    The  world  's  upside  clown. 

C.  Wai.    And  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  ! 

Omnes.    On  us  ?     Do  you  call  us  the  idlers  ? 

C.  Wai.  Some  dare  to  do  so  —  But  fear  not  —  In  the  ful- 
ness of  time,  all  that 's  lightest  is  sure  to  come  to  the  top  again. 

C.  Hugo.    But  what  rascal  calls  us  idlers  ? 

Omnes.    Name,  name. 

C.  Wai.  Why,  if  you  ask  me — I  heard  a  shrewd  sermon 
the  other  day  on  that  same  idleness  and  immorality  text  of 
the  Abbot's.  —  'T  was  Conrad,  the  Princess'  director,  preached 
it.  And  a  fashionable  cap  it  is,  though  it  will  fit  more  than 
will  like  to  wear  it.  Shall  I  give  it  you  ?  Shall  I  preach  ? 

C.  Hitgo.  A  tub  for  Varila !  Stand  on  the  table,  now,  toss 
back  thy  hood  like  any  Franciscan,  and  preach  away. 

C.  Wai.  Idleness,  quoth  he  (Conrad,  mind  you),  —  idle- 
ness and  immorality?  Where  have  they  learnt  them,  but  from 
your  nobles  ?  There  was  a  saucy  monk,  for  you.  But  there  ?s 
worse  coming.  Religion  ?  said  he,  how  can  they  respect  it, 
when  they  see  you,  "  Their  betters,"  fattening  on  church 
lands,  neglecting  sacraments,  defying  excommunications, 
trading  in  benefices,  hiring  the  clergy  for  your  puppets  and 
flatterers,  making  the  ministry,  the  episcopate  itself,  a  lumber- 
room  wherein  to  stow  away  the  idiots  and  spendthrifts  of 
your  families,  the  confidants  of  your  mistresses,  the  cast-off 
pedagogues  of  your  boys  ? 

Omnes.    The  scoundrel ! 

C.  Wai  Was  he  not? — But  hear  again  —  Immorality? 
roars  he  ;  and  who  has  corrupted  them  but  you  ?  Have  not 
you  made  every  castle  a  weed-bed,  from  which  the  newest 


222  THE   SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

corruptions  of  the  Court  stick  like  thistle-clown,  about  the 
empty  heads  of  stable-boys  and  serving-maids?  Have  you 
not  kept  the  poor  worse  housed  than  your  dogs  and  your 
horses,  worse  fed  than  your  pigs  and  your  sheep?  Is  there 
an  ancient  house  among  you,  again,  of  which  village  gossips 
do  not  whisper  some  dark  story  of  lust  and  oppression,  of 
decrepit  debauchery,  of  hereditary  doom  ? 

Omnes.    We  '11  hang  this  monk. 

C.  Wai.  Hear  me  out,  and  you  '11  burn  him.  His  sermon 
was  like  a  hailstorm,  the  tail  of  the  shower  the  sharpest. 
Idleness  ?  he  asked  next  of  us  all :  how  will  they  work,  when 
they  see  you  landlords  sitting  idle  above  them,  in  a  fool's 
paradise  of  luxury  and  riot,  never  looking  down  but  to  squeeze 
from  them  an  extra  drop  of  honey  —  like  sheep-boys  stuffing 
themselves  with  blackberries  while  the  sheep  are  licking  up 
flukes  in  every  ditch  ?  And  now  you  wish  to  leave  the  poor 
man  in  the  slough,  whither  your  neglect  and  your  example 
have  betrayed  him,  and  made  his  too  apt  scholarship  the 
excuse  for  your  own  remorseless  greed  !  As  a  Christian,  I 
am  ashamed  of  you  all ;  as  a  Churchman,  doubly  ashamed  of 
those  prelates,  hired  stalking-horses  of  the  rich,  who  would 
fain  gloss  over  their  own  sloth  and  cowardice  with  the 
wisdom  which  cometh  not  from  above,  but  is  earthly,  sensual, 
devilish  ;  aping  the  artless  cant  of  an  aristocracy  who  made 
them  —  use  them  —  and  despise  them.  That  was  his  ser- 
mon. 

Abbot.  Paul  and  Barnabas  !  What  an  outpouring  of  the 
spirit!  —  Were  not  his  hoodship  the  Pope's  legate,  now  — 
accidents  might  happen  to  him,  going  home  at  night ;  eh, 
Sir  Hugo  ? 

C.  Hugo.    If  he  would  but  come  my  way  ! 

For  "  the  mule  it  was  slow,  and  the  lane  it  was  dark, 
When  out  of  the  copse  leapt  a  gallant  young  spark. 


SCENE  vin.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  22$ 

Says,  'T  is  not  for  nought  you  've  been  begging  all  day: 
So  remember  your  toll,  since  you  travel  our  way." 

Abbot.    Hush  !     Here  comes  the  Landgrave. 
LEWIS  enters. 

Lewis.    Good    morrow,    gentles.      Why   so    warm,    Count 

Walter? 

Your  blessing,  Father  Abbot  :  what  deep  matters 
Have  called  our  worships  to  this  conference? 

C.  Hugo  (aside).    Up,  Count ;  you  are  spokesman. 

yi  Count.  Exalted  Prince, 

Whose  peerless  knighthood,  like  the  remeant  sun, 
After  too  long  a  night,  regilds  our  clay, 
Late  silvered  by  the  reflex  lunar  beams 
Of  your  celestial  lady's  matron  graces  — 

Abbot  (aside).  Ut  vinum  optimum  'amati  mei 
Dulciter  descendens ! 

$d  Count.    Think  not  we  mean  to  praise  or  disapprove  — 
The  acts  of  saintly  souls  must  only  plead 
In  foro  conscientiae  :  grosser  minds, 
Whose  humbler  aim  is  but  the  public  weal, 
Know  of  no  mesh  which  holds  them  •  yet,  great  Prince, 
Some  dare  not  see  their  sovereign's  strength  postponed 
To  private  grace,  and  sigh,  that  generous  hearts, 
And  ladies'  tenderness,  too  oft  forgetting 
That  "visclom  is  the  highest  charity, 
Will  interfere,  in  pardonable  haste, 
With  heaven's  stern  providence 

Lewis.  We  see  your  drift. 

Go,  sirrah  (to  a  page);  pray  the  Princess  to  illumine 
Our  conclave  with  her  beauties.     'Tis  our  manner 
To  hear  no  cause,  of  gentle  or  of  simple, 
Unless  the  accused  and  the  accuser  both 
Meet  face  to  face. 


224  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

$d  Coiuit.  Excuse,  high-mightiness,  — 

We  bring  no  accusation  ;  facts,  your  Highness, 
Wait  for  your  sentence,  not  our  praejudicium. 

Lew.   Give  us  the  facts,  then.  Sir ;  in  the  lady's  presence, 
Her  nearness  to  ourselves  —  perchance  her  reasons  — 
May  make  them  somewhat  dazzling. 

Abbot.  Nay,  my  Lord  ; 

I,  as  a  Churchman,  though  with  these  your  nobles 
Both  in  commission  and  opinion  one, 
Am  yet  most  loth,  my  Lord,  to  set  my  seal 
To  aught  which  this  harsh  world  might  call  complaint 
Against  a  princely  saint — a  chosen  vessel  — 
An  argosy  celestial  —  in  whom  error 
Is  but  the  young  luxuriance  of  her  grace. 
The  Count  of  Varila,  as  bound  to  neither, 
For  both  shall  speak,  and  all  which  late  has  passed 
Upon  the  matter  of  this  famine  open. 

C.   Wai.    Why,  if  I  must  speak  out — then  I  '11  confess  < 
To  have  stood  by,  and  seen  the  Landgravine 
Do  most  strange  deeds ;  and  in  her  generation 
Show  no  more  wit  than  other  babes  of  light. 
First,  she  has  given  away,  to  starving  rascals, 
The  stores  of  grain  she  might  have  sold,  good  lack ! 
For  any  price  she  asked  ;  has  pawned  your  jewels, 
And  mortgaged  sundry  farms,  and  all  for  food. 
Has  sunk  vast  sums  in  fever-hospitals, 
For  rogues  whom  famine  sickened  —  almhouses 
For  sluts  whose  husbands  died  —  schools  for  their  brats. 
Most  sad  vagaries  !  but  there  's  worse  to  come. 
The  dulness  of  the  Court  has  ruined  trade : 
The  jewellers  and  clothiers  don't  come  near  us ; 
The  sempstresses,  my  lord,  and  pastrycooks 
Have  quite  forgot  their  craft ;  she  has  turned  all  heads, 
And  made  the  ladies  starve,  and  wear  old  clothes, 


SCENE  vni.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  22$ 

And  run  about  with  her  to  nurse  the  sick, 

Instead  of  putting  gold  in  circulation 

By  balls,  sham-fights,  and  dinners;  'tis  most  sad,  sir, 

But  she  has  swept  your  treasury  out  as  clean  — 

As  was  the  widow's  cruse,  who  fed  Elijah. 

Lew.    Ruined,  no  doubt !     Lo !  here  the  culprit  comes. 

ELIZABETH  enters. 

Come  hither,  dearest.     These,  my  knights  and  nobles, 

Lament  your  late  unthrift  (your  conscience  speaks 

The  causes  of  their  blame)  ;  and  wish  you  warned, 

As  wisdom  is  the  highest  charity, 

No  more  to  interfere,  from  private  feeling, 

With  heaven's  stern  laws,  or  maim  the  sovereign's  wealth. 

To  save  superfluous  villains'  worthless  lives. 

Eliz.   Lewis  ! 

Lew.  Not  I,  fair,  but  my  counsellors, 

In  courtesy,  need  some  reply. 

Eliz.  My  Lords ; 

Doubtless,  you  speak  as  your  duty  bids  you : 
I  know  you  love  my  husband  :  do  you  think 
My  love  is  less  than  yours  ?     'T  was  for  his  honor 
I  dare  not  lose  a  single  silly  sheep 
Of  all  the  flock  which  God  had  trusted  to  him. 
True,  I  had  hoped  by  this  —  No  matter  what  — 
Since  to  your  sense  it  bears  a  different  hue. 
I  keep  no  logic.     For  my  gifts,  thank  God, 
They  cannot  be  recalled  ;  for  those  poor  souls, 
My  pensioners  —  even  for  my  husband's  knightly  name, 
Oh !  ask  not  back  that  slender  loan  of  comfort 
My  folly  has  procured  them  :  if,  my  Lords, 
My  public  censure,  or  disgraceful  penance 
May  expiate,  and  yet  confirm  my  waste, 
I  offer  this  poor  body  to  the  buffets 


226  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  IT. 

Of  sternest  justice  :   when  I  dared  not  spare 
My  husband's  lands,  I  dare  not  spare  myself. 

Lew.    No!  no!     My  noble  sister  ?     What?  my  Lords  ! 
If  her  love  move  you  not,  her  wisdom  may. 
She  knows  a  deeper  statecraft,  Sirs,  than  you 
She  will  not  throw  away  the  substance,  Abbot, 
To  save  the  accident ;  waste  living  souls 
To  keep,  or  hope  to  keep,  the  means  of  life. 
Our  wisdom  and  our  swords  may  fill  our  coffers, 
But  will  they  breed  us  men,  my  Lords,  or  mothers  ? 
God  blesses  in  the  camp  a  noble  rashness  : 
Then  why  not  in  the  storehouse?     He  that  lends 
To  Him,  need  never  fear  to  lose  his  venture. 
Spend  on,  my  Queen.     You  will  not  sell  my  castles  ? 
Nay,  you  must  leave  us  Neuburg,  love,  and  Wartburg. 
Their  worn  old  stones  will  hardly  pay  the  carriage, 
And  foreign  foes  may  pay  untimely  visits. 

C.  Wai.   And  home  foes,  too:  if  these  philosophers 
Put  up  the  curb,  my  Lord,  a  half-link  tighter, 
The  scythes  will  be  among  our  horses'  legs 
Before  next  harvest. 

Lew.  Fear  not  for  our  welfare  : 

We  have  a  guardian  here,  well  skilled  to  keep 
Peace  for  our  seneschal,  while  angels,  stooping 
To  catch  the  tears  she  sheds  for  us  in  absence, 
Will  sain  us  from  the  roaming  adversary 
With  scents  of  Paradise.     Farewell,  my  Lords. 

Eliz.  Nay,  —  I  must  pray  your  knighthoods  —     You  must 

honor 

Our  dais  and  bower  as  private  guests  to-day. 
Thanks  for  your  gentle  warning;  may  my  weakness 
To  such  a  sin  be  never  tempted  more ! 

\_Exeunt  ELIZABETH  and  LEWIS. 

C.  Wai.    Thus,  as  if  virtue  were  not  its  own  reward,  is  it 


SCENE  vi  1 1.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2.2  J 

paid  over  and  above  with  beef  and  ale  ?  Weep  not,  tender- 
hearted Count !  Though  "  generous  hearts,"  my  Lord,  "  and 
ladies'  tenderness,  too  oft  forget" — Truly  spoken!  Lord 
Abbot,  does  not  your  spiritual  eye  discern  coals  of  fire  on 
Count  Hugo's  head  ? 

C.  Hugo.   Where,  and  a  plague  ?     Where  ? 

C.  Wai.  Nay,  I  speak  mystically,  —  there  is  nought  there 
but  what  beer  will  quench  before  nightfall.  Here,  peeping 
rabbit  (to  a  Page  at  the  door\  out  of  your  burrow,  and  show 
these  gentles  to  their  lodgings.  We  will  meet  at  the  gratias. 

[  They  go  out. 

C.  Wai.  (alone}.  Well  :  —  if  Hugo  is  a  brute,  he  at  least 
makes  no  secret  of  it.  He  is  an  old  boar,  and  honest ;  he 
wears  his  tushes  outside,  for  a  warning  to  all  men.  But  for 
the  rest !  —  Whited  sepulchres  !  and  not  one  of  them  but  has 
half  persuaded  himself  of  his  own  benevolence.  Of  all 
cruelties,  save  me  from  your  small  pedant,  —  your  closet 
philosopher,  who  has  just  courage  enough  to  bestride  his 
theory,  without  wit  to  see  whither  it  will  carry  him.  In  expe- 
rience—  a  child:  in  obstinacy,  a  woman:  in  nothing  a  man, 
but  in  logic-chopping :  instead  of  God's  grace,  a  few  school- 
boy saws  about  benevolence,  and  industry,  and  independence 
—  there  is  his  metal.  If  the  world  will  be  mended  on  his 
principles,  well.  If  not,  poor  world  !  —  but  principles  must 
be  carried  out,  though  through  blood  and  famine  :  for  truly, 
man  was  made  for  theories,  not  theories  for  man.  A  doctrine 
is  these  men's  God  —  touch  but  that  shrine,  and  lo !  your 
simpering  philanthropist  becomes  as  ruthless  as  a  Dominican. 

{Exit. 


228  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 


SCENE  IX. 
ELIZABETH'S  Bower.     ELIZABETH  and  LEWIS  sitting  together. 

SONG. 
Eliz.    Oh  !  that  we  two  were  Maying 

Down  the  stream  of  the  soft  spring  breeze ; 
Like  children  with  violets  playing 
In  the  shade  of  the  whispering  trees. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  sat  dreaming 

On  the  sward  of  some  sheep-trimmed  down 

Watching  the  white  mist  steaming 

Over  river  and  mead  and  town. 

Oh !  that  we  two  lay  sleeping 

In  our  nest  in  the  churchyard  sod, 

With  our  limbs  at  rest  on  the  quiet  earth's  breast, 

And  our  souls  at  home  with  God  ! 

Lew.   Ah,  turn  away  those  swarthy  diamonds'  blaze  ! 
Mine  eyes  are  dizzy,  and  my  faint  sense  reels 
In  the  rich  fragrance  of  those  purple  tresses. 
Oh,  to  be  thus,  and  thus,  day  after  day ! 
To  sleep,  and  wake,  and  find  it  yet  no  dream  — 
My  atmosphere,  my  hourly  food,  such  bliss 
As  to  have  dreamt  of,  five  short  years  agone, 
Had  seemed  a  mad  conceit. 

Eliz.  Five  years  agone  ? 

Lew.    I  know  not ;  for  upon  our  marriage-day 
I  slipped  from  time  into  eternity; 
Where  each  day  teems  with  centuries  of  life, 
And  centuries  were  but  one  wedding  morn. 

Eliz.   Lewis,  I  am  too  happy !  floating  higher 


SCENE  ix.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  22Q 

Then  e'  er  my  will  had  dared  to  soar,  though  able  ; 
But  circumstance,  which  is  the  will  of  God, 
Beguiled  my  cowardice  to  that,  which,  darling, 
I  found  most  natural,  when  I  feared  it  most. 
Love  would  have  had  no  strangeness  in  mine  eyes, 
Save  from  the  prejudice  which  others  taught  me  — 
They  should  know  best.     Yet  now  this  wedlock  seems 
A  second  infancy's  baptismal  robe, 
A  heaven,  my  spirit's  antenatal  home, 
Lost  in  blind  pining  girlhood  —  found  now,  found  ! 
(Aside)  What  have  I  said  ?     Do  I  blaspheme  ?     Alas  ! 
I  neither  made  these  thoughts,  nor  can  unmake  them. 

Leiv.    Ay,  marriage  is  the  life-long  miracle, 
The  self-begetting  wonder,  daily  fresh  ; 
The  Eden,  where  the  spirit  and  the  flesh 
Are  one  again,  and  new-born  souls  walk  free, 
And  name  in  mystic  language  all  things  new, 
Naked,  and  not  ashamed.  [Euz.  hides  her  face. 

Eliz.  Oh  !  God  !  were  that  true ! 

\Clasps  him  round  the  neck. 
There,  there,  no  more  — 
I  love  thee,  and  I  love  thee,  and  I  love  thee  — 
More  than  rich  thoughts  can  dream,  or  mad  lips  speak ; 
But  how,  or  why,  whether  with  soul  or  body, 
I  will  not  know.     Thou  art  mine.  —  Why  question  further  ? 
(Aside]  Ay  if  I  fall  by  loving,  I  will  love, 
And  be  degraded  !  —  how  ?  by  my  own  troth-plight  ? 
No,  but  my  thinking  that  I  fall.  —  'Tis  written 
That  whatsoe'er  is  not  of  faith  is  sin.  — 
Oh  !  Jesu  Lord  !     Hast  thou  not  made  me  thus  ? 
Mercy  !     My  brain  will  burst  :  I  cannot  leave  him  ! 

Lew.    Beloved,  if  I  went  away  to  war  — 

Eliz.   Oh,  God  !     More  wars  ?     More  partings  ? 

Lav.  Nay,  my  sister — 


23O  THE   SAINT'S    TRAGEDY.  ACT  ir. 

My  trust  but  longs  to  glory  in  its  surety : 
What  would'st  thou  do  ? 

Eliz.  What  I  have  done  already. 

Have  I  not  followed  thee,  through  drought  and  frost, 
Through  flooded  swamps,  rough  glens,  and  wasted  lands, 
Even  while  I  panted  most  with  thy  dear  loan 
Of  double  life  ? 

Lew.  My  saint !  but  what  if  I  bid  thee 

To  be  my  seneschal,  and  here  with  prayers, 
With  sober  thrift,  and  noble  bounty  shine, 
Alone  and  peerless  ?     And  suppose  —  nay,  start  not  — 
I  only  said  suppose  —  the  war  was  long, 
Our  camps  far  off,  and  that  some  winter,  love, 
Or  two,  pent  back  this  Eden  stream,  where  now 
Joys  upon  joys  like  sunlit  ripples  pass, 
Alike,  yet  ever  new.  —  What  would'st  thou  do,  love  ? 

Eliz.    A  year  ?     A  year  !     A  cold-  blank,  widowed  year! 
Strange,  that  mere  words  should  chill  my  heart  with  fear  — 

This  is  no  hall  of  doom, 
No  impious  Soldan's  feast  of  old, 
Where  o'er  the  madness  of  the  foaming  gold, 
A  fleshless  hand  its  woe  on  tainted  walls  enrolled. 
Yet  by  thy  wild  words  raised, 
In  Love's  most  careless  revel, 
Looms  through  the  future's  fog  a  shade  of  evil, 
And  all  my  heart  is  glazed. — 
Alas  ?     What  would  I  clo  ? 
I  would  lie  down  and  weep,  and  weep, 
Till  the  salt  current  of  my  tears  should  sweep 
My  soul,  like  floating  weed,  adown  a  fitful  sleep, 

A  lingering  half-night  through. 
Then  when  the  mocking  bells  did  wake 
My  hollow  eyes  to  twilight  gray, 
I  would  address  my  spiritless  limbs  to  pray, 


SCENE  IX.  THE  SAINTS    TRAC.EDY.  2$l 

And  nerve  myself  with  stripes  to  meet  the  weary  day, 

And  labor  for  thy  sake. 
Until  by  vigils,  fasts,  and  tears, 
The  flesh  was  grown  so  spare  and  light, 
That  I  could  slip  its  mesh,  and  flit  by  night 
O'er  sleeping  sea  and  land  to  thee  — or  Christ  —  till  morning 

light. 

Peace  !     Why  these  fears  ? 
Life  is  too  short  for  mean  anxieties  : 
Soul !  thou  must  work,  though  blindfold. 

Come,  beloved, 

I  must  turn  robber.  —  I  have  begged  of  late 
So  soft,  I  fear  to  ask.  —  Give  me  thy  purse. 

Lew.    No,  not  my  purse  :  —  stay  —  Where  is  all  that  gold 
I  gave  you,  when  the  Jews  came  here  from  Koln  ? 

Eliz.   Oh,  those  few  coins  ?     I  spent  them  all  next  day 
On  a  new  chapel  on  the  Eisenthal  ; 
There  were  no  choristers  but  nightingales  — 
No  teachers  there  save  bees :  how  long  is  this  ? 
Have  you  turned  niggard  ? 

Lew.  Nay  ;  go  ask  my  steward  — 

Take  what  you  will  —  this  purse  I  want  myself. 

Eliz.    Ah  !  now  I  guess.     You  have  some  trinket  for  me  — 
You  promised  late  to  buy  no  more  such  baubles  — 
And  now  you  are  ashamed.  —  Nay,  I  must  see  — 

[Snatches  his  purse.     LEWIS  hides  his  face. 
Ah,  God  !  what 's  here  ?     A  new  crusader's  cross  ? 
Whose  ?     Nay,  nay —  turn  not  from  me  ;  I  guess  all  — 
You  need  not  tell  me  ;  it  is  very  well  — 
According  to  the  meed  of  my  deserts : 
Yes  —  very  well. 

Lew.  Ah  !  love  —  look  not  so  calm  — 

Eliz.  Fear  not  —  I  shall  weep  soon. 

How  long  is  it  since  you  vowed  ? 


232  777/i   SALYT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  IT. 

Lew.  A  week  or  more. 

Eliz.    Brave  heart !     And  all  that  time  your  tenderness 
Kept  silence,  knowing  my  weak  foolish  soul.  [  Weeps. 

Oh,  love!     Oh,  life!     Late  found,  and  soon,  soon  lost! 
A  bleak  sunrise,  —  a  treacherous  morning  gleam, — 
And  now,  ere  mid-clay,  all  my  sky  is  black 
With  whirling  drifts  once  more !     The  inarch  is  fixed 
For  this  day  month,  is 't  not  ? 

Lew.  Alas,  too  true  ! 

Eliz.    O  break  not,  heart ! 

CONRAD  enters. 

Ah  !  here  my  master  comes. 
No  weeping  before  him. 

Lew.  Speak  to  the  holy  man  : 

He  can  give  strength  and  comfort,  which  poor  I 
Need  even  more  than  you.     Here,  saintly  master, 
I  leave  her  to  your  holy  eloquence.     Farewell ! 
God  help  us  both  !  {Exit  LEWIS. 

Eliz.  (rising}.    You  know,  Sir,  that  my  husband  has  taken 
the  cross ! 

Con.    I  do  ;  all  praise  to  God  ! 

Eliz.  But  none  to  you  : 

Hard-hearted  !     Am  I  not  enough  your  slave  ? 
Can  I  obey  you  more  when  he  is  gone 
Than  now  I  do  ?     Wherein,  pray,  has  he  hindered 
This  holiness  of  mine,  for  which  you  make  me 
Old  ere  my  womanhood  !  [CONRAD  offers  to  go. 

Stay,  Sir,  and  tell  me 

Is  this  the  out-come  of  your  "father's  care  ?  " 
Was  it  not  enough  to  poison  all  my  joys 
With  foulest  scruples? — show  me  nameless  sins, 
Where  I,  unconscious  babe,  blessed  God  for  all  things, 
But  you  must  thus  intrigue  away  my  knight 


SCENE  ix.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  233 

And  plunge  me  down  this  gulf  of  widowhood ! 
And  I  not  twenty  yet  —  a  girl  —  an  orphan  — 
That  cannot  stand  alone  !     Was  I  too  happy  ? 
Oh,  God !  what  lawful  bliss  do  I  not  buy 
And  balance  with  the  smart  of  some  sharp  penance  ? 
Hast  thou  no  pity  ?     None  ?     Thou  drivest  me 
To  fiendish  doubts  :  Thou,  Jesus'  messenger  ? 

Con.    This  to  your  master  ! 

Eliz.  This  to  any  one 

Who  dares  to  part  me  from  my  love. 

Con.  'T  is  well  — 

In  pity  to  your  weakness  I  must  deign 
To  do  what  ne'er  I  did  —  excuse  myself. 
I  say,  I  knew  not  of  your  husband's  purpose ; 
God's  spirit,  not  I,  moved  him  .  perhaps  I  sinned 
In  that  I  did  not  urge  it  myself. 

Eliz.  Thou  traitor ! 

So  thou  would'st  part  us  ? 

Cuii.  Aught  that  makes  thee  greater 

I  '11  dare.     This  very  outburst  proves  in  thee 
Passions  unsanctified,  and  carnal  leanings 
Upon  the  creatures  thou  would'st  fain  transcend. 
Thou  badest  me  cure  thy  weakness.     Lo,  God  brings  thee 
The  tonic  cup  I  feared  to  mix  :  —  be  brave  — 
Drink  it  to  the  lees,  and  thou  shalt  find  within 
A  pearl  of  price. 

Eliz.  'T  is  bitter! 

Con. .  Bitter,  truly  : 

Even  I,  to  whom  the  storm  of  earthly  love 
Is  but  a  dim  remembrance  —  Courage  !     Courage ! 
There  's  glory  in  't ;  fulfil  thy  sacrifice  ; 
Give  up  thy  noblest  on  the  noblest  service 
God's  sun  has  looked  on,  since  the  chosen  twelve 
Went  conquering,  and  to  conquer,  forth.     If  he  fall  — 


234 


Eliz.    Oh,  spare  mine  ears  ! 

Con.  He  falls  a  blessed  martyr, 

To  bid  thee  welcome  through  the  gates  of  pearl; 
And  next  to  his  shall  thine  own  guerdon  be 
If  thoti  devote  him  willing  to  thy  God. 
Wilt  thou  ? 

Eliz.          Have  mercy! 

Con.  Wilt  thou  ?     Sit  not  thus 

Watching  the  sightless  air  :  no  angel  in  it 
But  asks  thee  what  I  ask  :  the  fiend  alone 
Delays  thy  coward  flesh.  Wilt  thou  devote  him  ? 

Eliz.    I  will  devote  him  ;  —  a  crusader's  wife  ! 
I  '11  glory  in  it.     Thou  speakest  words  from  God  — 
And  God  shall  have  him!  Go  now  —  gcocl,  my  master; 
My  poor  brain  swims.  [Exit  CONRAD. 

Yes  —  a  crusader's  wife  ! 
And  a  crusader's  widow  ! 

[Bursts  i?ito  tears,  and  dashes  herself  on  the  floor. 

SCENE  X. 

A  Street  in  the  Town  of  Schmalcald.  Bodies  of  Crusading 
Troops  defiling  past.  LEWIS  and  ELIZABETH  with  their 
Suite  in  the  foreground. 

Lew.    Alas!  the  time  is  near;  I  must  be  gone  — 
There  are  our  liegemen  ;  how  you  '11  welcome  us, 
Returned  in  triumph,  bowed  with  paynim  spoils, 
Beneath  the  victor  cross,  to  part  no  more  ! 

Eliz.    Yes  —  we  shall  part  no  more,  where  next  we  meet. 
Enough  to  have  stood  here  once  on  such  an  errand  ! 

Lew.   The  bugle  calls.  —  -  Farewell,  my  love,  my  lady, 
Queen,  sister,  saint!     One  last  long  kiss  —  Farewell  ! 

Eliz.    One  kiss  —  and  then  another  —  and  another  — 


SCENE  x.  THE  SAINT'S  TKAGEDY.  235 

Till  't  is  too  late  to  go  —  and  so  return  — 
Oh  God  !  forgive  that  craven  thought !     There,  take  him 
Since  Thou  dost  need  him.     I  have  kept  him  ever 
Thine,  when  most  mine  ;  and  shall  I  now  deny  Thee  ? 
Oh!  go  —  yes,  go  —  Thou  'It  not  forget  to  pray, 

[LEWIS  goes. 

With  me,  at  our  old  hour  ?     Alas  !  he  's  gone 
And  lost  —  thank  God  he  hears  me  not  —  forever. 
Why  look'st  thou  so,  poor  girl  ?     I  say,  forever. 
The  clay  I  found  the  bitter  blessed  cross, 
Something  did  strike  my  heart  like  keen  cold  steel, 
Which  quarries  daily  there  with  dead  dull  pains  — 
Whereby  I  know  that  we  shall  meet  no  more. 
Come!  Home,  maids,  home!     Prepare  me  widow's  weeds  — 
For  he  is  dead  to  me,  and  I  must  soon 
Die  too  to  him,  and  many  things;  and  mark  me  — 
Breathe  not  his  name,  lest  this  love-pampered  heart 
Should  sicken  to  vain  yearnings  —  Lost!  lost!  lost! 

Lady.    Oh  stay,  and  watch  this  pomp. 

Eliz.    Well  said — we '11  stay;  so  this  bright  enterprise 
Shall  blanch  our  private  clouds,  and  steep  our  soul 
Drunk  with  the  spirit  of  great  Christendom. 

CRUSADER  CHORUS. 
\Men-at-Arms  pass,  singing.~\ 
The  tomb  of  God  before  us, 
Our  fatherland  behind, 
Our  ships  shall  leap  o'er  billows  steep, 
Before  a  charmed  wind. 

Above  our  van  great  angels 

Shall  fight  along  the  sky  ; 

Whih  martyrs  pure  and  crowned  saints 

To  God  for  rescue  cry. 


236  THE  SAINT 'S   TRA  GKD  J '.  ACT  1 1. 

The  red-cross  knights  and  yeomen 
Throughout  the  holy  town, 
In  faith  and  might,  on  left  and  right, 
Shall  tread  the  paynim  down. 

Till  on  the  Mount  Moriah 
The  Pope  of  Rome  shall  stand ; 
The  Kaiser  and  the  King  of  France 
Shall  guard  him  on  each  hand. 

There  shall  he  rule  all  nations, 
With  crozier  and  with  sword; 
And  pour  on  all  the  heathen, 
The  wrath  of  Christ  the  Lord 

[  Women  —  bystanders^ 
Christ  is  a  rock  in  the  bare  salt  land, 
To  shelter  our  knights  from  the  sun  and  sand : 
Christ  the  Lord  is  a  summer  sun, 
To  ripen  the  grain  while  they  are  gone. 

Then  you  who  fight  in  the  bare  salt  land, 
And  you  who  work  at  home, 
Fight  and  work  for  Christ  the  Lord, 
Until  His  kingdom  come. 

[Old  Knights  pass.} 
Our  stormy  sun  is  sinking ; 
Our  sands  are  running  low ; 
In  one  fair  fight,  before  the  night, 
Our  hard-worn  hearts  shall  glow. 

We  cannot  pine  in  cloister ; 
We  cannot  fast  and  pray ; 


SCENE  x.  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY. 

The  sword  which  built  our  load  of  guilt 
Must  wipe  that  guilt  away. 

We  know  the  doom  before  us ; 
The  dangers  of  the  road ; 
Have  mercy,  mercy,  Jesu  blest, 
When  we  lie  low  in  blood. 

When  we  lie  gashed  and  gory, 
The  holy  walls  within, 
Sweet  Jesu,  think  upon  our  end, 
And  wipe  away  our  sin. 

\Boy  Crusaders  pass .] 
The  Christ-child  sits  on  high : 
He  looks  through  the  merry  blue  sky ; 
He  holds  in  His  hand  a  bright  lily-band, 
For  the  boys  who  for  Him  die. 

On  holy  Mary's  arm, 

Wrapt  safe  from  terror  and  harm, 

Lulled  by  the  breeze  in  the  paradise  trees, 

Their  souls  sleep  soft  and  warm. 

Knight  David,  young  and  true, 

The  giant  Soldan  slew, 

And  our  arms  so  light,  for  the  Christ-child's  right, 

Like  noble  deeds  can  do. 

[  Young  Knights  passl\ 
The  rich  East  blooms  fragrant  before  us  ; 
All  Fairy-land  beckons  us  forth ; 
We  must  follow  the  crane  in  her  flight  o'er  the  main, 
From  the  frosts  and  the  moors  of  the  North. 


238  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Our  sires  in  the  youth  of  the  nations 
Swept  westward  through  plunder  and  blood, 
But  a  holier  quest  calls  us  back  to  the  East, 
We  fight  for  the  kingdom  of  God. 

Then  shrink  not,  and  sigh  not,  fair  ladies, 
The  red  cross  which  flames  on  each  arm  and  each  shield, 
Through  philtre  and  spell,  and  the  black  charms  of  hell, 
Shall  shelter  our  true  love  in  camp  and  in  field. 

\Old  Monk,  looking  after  them?\ 
Jerusalem,  Jerusalem  ! 
The  burying  place  of  God  ! 
Why  gay  and  bold,  in  steel  and  gold, 
O'er  the  paths  where  Christ  hath  trod  ? 

\The  Scene  closes. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Wartburg.     ELIZABETH  sitting  in   Widow's 

weeds ;  GUTA  and  ISENTRUDIS  by  her. 
Isen.    What  ?     Always  thus,  my  Princess  ?     Is  this  wise, 
By  day  with  fasts  and  ceaseless  coil  of  labor ; 
About  the  ungracious  poor  —  hands,  eyes,  feet,  brain, 
O'ertasked  alike  —  'mid  sin  and  filth,  which  make 
Each  sense  a  plague — by  night  with  cruel  stripes, 
And  weary  watchings  on  the  freezing  stone, 
To  double  all  your  griefs,  and  burn  life's  candle, 
As  village  gossips  say,  at  either  end  ? 
The  good  book  bids  the  heavy-hearted  drink, 
And  so  forget  their  woe. 


SCENE  T.  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY. 

Eliz.  'T  is  written  too 

In  that  same  book,  nurse,  that  the  days  shall  come 
When  the  bridegroom  shall  be  taken  away  —  and  then  — 
Then  shall  they  mourn  and  fast :  I  needed  weaning 
From  sense  and  earthly  joys  ;  by  this  way  only 
May  I  win  God  to  leave  in  mine  own  hands 
My  luxury's  cure  :  oh  !  I  may  bring  him  back, 
By  working  out  to  its  full  depth  the  chastening 
The  need  of  which  his  loss  proves :  I  but  barter 
Less  grief  for  greater — pain  for  widowhood. 

Ise/i.   And  death  for  life  —  your  cheeks  are  wan  and  sharp 
As  any  three  days'  moon  —  you  are  shifting  always 
Uneasily  and  stiff,  now,  on  your  seat, 
As  from  some  secret  pain. 

Eliz.  Why  watch  me  thus  ? 

You  cannot  know  —  and  yet  you  know  too  much  — 
I  tell  you,  nurse,  pain  's  comfort,  when  the  flesh 
Aches  with  the  aching  soul  in  harmony, 
And  even  in  woe,  we  are  one  :  the  heart  must  speak 
Its  passion's  strangeness  in  strange  symbols  out, 
Or  boil,  till  it  bursts  inly. 

Guta.  Yet,  methinks, 

You  might  have  made  this  widowed  solitude 
A  holy  rest  —  a  spell  of  soft  gray  weather, 
Beneath  whose  fragrant  dews  all  tender  thoughts 
Might  bud  and  burgeon. 

Eliz.  That 's  a  gentle  dream  ; 

But  nature  shows  nought  like  it :  every  winter, 
When  the  great  sun  has  turned  his  face  away, 
The  earth  goes  clown  into  the  vale  of  grief, 
And  fasts,  and  weeps,  and  shrouds  herself  in  sables, 
Leaving  her  wedding-garlands  to  decay  — 
Then  leaps  in  spring  to  his  returning  kisses  — 
As  I  may  yet !  — 


240  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  TIL 

Isen.  There,  now  —  my  foolish  child  ! 

You  faint :  come  —  come  to  your  chamber  — 

Eliz.  Oh,  forgive  me  ! 

But  hope  at  times  throngs  in  so  rich  and  full, 
It  mads  the  brain  like  wine  :  come  with  me,  nurse, 
Sit  by  me,  lull  me  calm  with  gentle  tales 
Of  noble  ladies  wandering  in  the  wild  wood, 
Fed  on  chance  earth-nuts,  and  wild  strawberries 
Or  milk  of  silly  sheep,  and  woodland  doe. 
Or  how  fair  Magdalen  'mid  desert  sands 
Wore  out  in  prayer  her  lonely  blissful  years, 
Watched  by  bright  angels,  till  her  modest  tresses 
Wove  to  her  pearled  feet  their  golden  shroud. 
Come,  open  all  your  lore. 

[SOPHIA  and  AGNES  enter  I\ 

My  mother-in-law  ! 
(Aside)  Shame  on  thee,  heart !  why  sink,  whene'er  we  meet .' 

Soph.    Daughter,  we  know  of  old  thy  strength^  of  metal 
Beyond  us  worldlings  :  shrink  not,  if  the  time 
Be  come  which  needs  its  use  — 

Eliz.    What  means  this  preface  ?     Ah  !  your  looks  are  big 
\Vith  sudden  woes  —  speak  out. 

Soph.  Be  calm,  and  hear 

The  will  of  God  toward  my  son,  thy  husband. 

Eliz.    What  ?  is  he  captive  ?     Why  then  —  what  of  that  ? 
There    are    friends  will   rescue  him  —  there's  gold  for  ran- 
som — 

We'll  sell  our  castles  —  live  in  bowers  of  rushes  — 
Oh  God  !  that  I  were  with  him  in  the  dungeon ! 

Soph.    He  is  not  taken. 

Eliz.  No  !  he  would  have  fought  to  the  death  ! 
There  's  treachery !  What  paynim  dog  dare  face 
His  lance,  who  naked  braved  you  lion's  rage, 


SCENEI.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  24! 

And  eyed  the  cowering  monster  to  his  den  ? 
Speak !     Has  he  fled  ?  or  worse  ? 

Soph.  Child,  he  is  dead. 

Eliz.    (clasping  her  hands  on  her  knees).     The  world  is  dead 
to  me,  and  all  its  smiles ! 

Isen.    Oh,  woe  !  rny  prince  !  and  doubly  woe,  my  daughter  ! 
[ELIZABETH  springs  up  and  rushes  out. 
Oh,  stop  her — stop  my  child  !     She  will  go  mad  — 
Dash  herself  down  —  Fly  —  Fly  —  She  is  not  made 
Of  hard,  light  stuff,  like  you. 

[ISENTRUDIS  and  GUTA  run  out. 

Soph.    I  had  expected  some  such  passionate  outbreak 
At  the  first  news :  you  see  now,  Lady  Agnes, 
These  saints,  who  fain  would  "  wean  themselves  from  earth," 
Still  yield  to  the  affections  they  despise 
When  the  game's  earnest  —  Now  —  ere  they  return  — 
Your  brother,  child,  is  dead 

Agnes.  I  know  it  too  well. 

So   young  —  so   brave  —  so   blest !  —  And   she  —  she    loved 

him  — 

Oh  !   I  repent  of  all  the  foolish  scoffs 
With  which  I  crossed  her. 

Soph.  .  Yes  —  the  Landgrave  's  dead — 

Attend  to  me  —  Alas  !  my  son  !  my  son  ! 
He  was  my  first-born  !     But 'he  has  a  brother  — 
Agnes  !  we  must  not  let  this  foreign  gipsy, 
Who,  as  you  see,  is  scarce  her  own  wits'  mistress, 
Flaunt  sovereign  over  us,  and  our  broad  lands, 
To  my  son's  prejudice  —  There  are  barons,  child, 
Who  will  obey  a  knight,  but  not  a  saint : 
I  must  at  once  to  them. 

Agues.  Oh,  let  me  stay. 

Soph.   As  you  shall  please  —  Your  brother's  landgravate 
Is  somewhat  to  you,  surely  —  and  your  smiles 


242  THE  SAINTS  TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Are  worth  gold  pieces  in  a  court  intrigue. 
For  her,  on  her  own  principles,  a  downfall 
Is  a  chastening  mercy  —  and  a  likely  one. 
Agnes.    Oh  !  let  me  stay,  and  comfort  her ! 
Soph.  Romance ! 

You  girls  adore  a  scene  —  as  lookers  on. 

\Exit  SOPHIA. 

Agnes  (alone}.    Well  spoke  the  old  monks,  peaceful  watch- 
ing life's  turmoil, 

"  Eyes  which  look  heavenward,  weeping  still  we  see  : 
God's  love  with  keen  flame  purges,  like  the  lightning  flash, 
Gold  which  is  purest,  purer  still  must  be." 

[GuTA  enters.~\ 
Alas  !     Returned  alone  !     Where  has  my  sister  been  ? 

Guta.    Thank  heaven  you  here  alone,  for  such  sad  sight 

would  haunt 
Henceforth  your  young  hopes  —  crush  your  shuddering  fancy 

down 

With  dread  of  like  fierce  anguish. 

You  saw  her  bound  forth  :  we  towards  her  bower  in  haste 
Ran  trembling:  spell-bound  there,  before  her  bridal-bed 
She  stood,  while  wan  smiles  flickered,  like  the  northern  dawn, 
Across  her  worn  cheeks'  ice-field ;  keenest  memories  then 
Rushed  with  strong  shudderings  through  her  —  as  the  winged 

shaft 
Springs   from    the    tense  nerve,   so   her   passion  hurled  her 

forth 

Sweeping,  like  fierce  ghost,  on  through  hall  and  corridor, 
Tearless,  with  wide  eyes  staring,  while  a  ghastly  wind 
Moaned  on  through  roof  and  rafter,  and  the  empty  helms 
Along  the  walls  rang  clattering,  and  above  her  waved 
Dead  heroes'  banners :  swift  and  yet  more  swift  she  drove 
Still  seeking  aimless ;  sheer  against  the  opposing  wall 


SCENE  T.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  243 

At  last  dashed  reckless  —  there  with  frantic  ringers  clutched 

Blindly  the  ribbed  oak,  till  that  frost  of  rage 

Dissolved  itself  in  tears,  and  like  a  babe, 

With  inarticulate  moans,  and  folded  hands, 

She  followed  those  who  led  her,  as  if  the  sun 

On  her  life's  dial  had  gone  back  seven  years, 

And  she  were  once  again  the  dumb  sad  child 

We  knew  her  ere  she  married. 

Isen.  (entering).   As  after  wolf  wolf  presses,  leaping  through 

the  snow-glades, 
So  woe  on  woe  throngs  surging  up. 

Guta.  What  ?  treason  ? 

Isen.   Treason,  and  of  the  foulest.     From  her  state  she  's 

rudely  thrust ; 

Her  keys  are  seized ;  her  weeping  babies  pent  from  her  : 
The  wenches  stop  their  sobs  to  sneer  askance, 
And  greet  their  fallen  censor's  new  mischance. 

Agnes.    Alas  !     Who  dare  to  clo  this  wrong  ? 

Isen.    Your  mother  and  your  mother's  son  — 
Judge  you,  if  it  was  knightly  done. 

Guta.    See  !  see  !  she  comes,  with  heaving  breast, 
With  bursting  eyes,  and  purpled  brow  : 
Oh  that  the  traitors  saw  her  now ! 
They  know  not,  sightless  fools,  the  heart  they  break. 

ELIZABETH  enters  slowly. 
Eliz.    He  is  in  purgatory  now  !  Alas  ! 
Angels !  be  pitiful !  deal  gently  with  him  ! 
His  sins  were  gentle  !     That 's  one  cause  left  for  living  — 
To  pray,  and  pray  for  him :  why  all  these  months 
I  prayed,  —  and  here  's  my  answer  :  Dead  of  a  fever  1 
Why  thus  ?  so  soon  !     Only  six  years  for  love  ! 
While  any  formal,  heartless  matrimony, 
Patched  up  by  Court  intrigues,  and  threats  of  cloisters, 


244  THE  SAINT\S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  m. 

Drags  on  for  six  times  six,  and  peasant  slaves 
Grow  old  on  the  same  straw,  and  hand  in  hand 
Slip  from  life's  oozy  bank,  to  float  at  ease. 

[A  knocking  at  the  door. 
That 's  some  petitioner. 

Go  to  —  I  will  not  hear  them  :  why  should  I  work, 
When  he  is  dead  ?     Alas  !  was  that  my  sin  ? 
Was  he,  not  Christ,  my  lode-star  ?     Why  not  warn  me  ? 
Too  late  !     What 's  this  foul  dream  ?     Dead  at  Otranto  — 
Parched  by  Italian  suns  —  no  woman  by  him  — 
He  was  too  chaste  !     Nought  but  rude  men  to  nurse  !  — 
If  I  had  been  there,  I  should  have  watched  by  him  — 
Guessed  every  fancy  —  God  !     I  might  have  saved  him  ! 

[A  servant-man  bursts  in. 

Servant.  Madam,  the  Landgrave  gave  me  strict  commands — 
Isen.   The  Landgrave,  dolt? 

Eliz.  I  might  have  saved  him  ! 

Servant  (to  Isen.)    Ay,  saucy  madam  !  — 

The  Landgrave  Henry,  lord  and  master, 
Freer  than  the  last,  and  yet  no  waster, 
Who  will  not  stint  a  poor  knave's  beer, 
Or  spin  out  Lent  through  half  the  year. 
Why  —  I  see  double  ! 

Eliz.   Who  spoke  there  of  the  Landgrave  ?     What 's  this 

drunkard  ? 

Give  him  his  answer  —  'T  is  no  time  for  mumming  — 
Serv.    The  Landgrave  Henry  bade  me  see  you  out 
Safe  through  his  gates,  and  that  at  once,  my  Lady. 
Come! 

Eliz.    Why  —  that 's  hasty  —  I  must  take  my  children  — 
Ah  !  I  forgot  —  they  would  not  let  me  see  them. 
I  must  pack  up  my  jewels  — 

Serv.  You  '11  not  need  it  — 

His  Lordship  has  the  keys. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  24$ 

Eliz.  He  has  indeed. 

Why,  man  !  —  I  am  thy  children's  godmother  — 
I  nursed  thy  wife  myself  in  the  black  sickness  — 
Art  thou  a  bird,  that  when  the  old  tree  falls, 
Flits  off,  and  sings  in  the  sapling  ?      {The  man  seizes  her  arm. 

Keep  thine  hands  off  — 

I  '11  not  be  shamed  —  Lead  on.     Farewell,  my  Ladies. 
Follow  not !     There  's  want  to  spare  on  earth  already ; 
And  mine  own  woe  is  weight  enough  for  me. 
Go  back,  and  say,  Elizabeth  has  yet 
Eternal  homes,  built  deep  in  poor  men's  hearts ; 
And,  in  the  alleys  underneath  the  wall, 
Has  bought  with  sinful  mammon  heavenly  treasure, 
More  sure  than  adamant,  purer  than  white  whales'  bone, 
Which  now  she   claims.      Lead  on :    A  people's   love   shall 
right  me.  \Exit  with  Servant. 

Guta.   Where  now,  dame  ? 

Jsen.  Where,  but  after  her  ? 

Guta.   True  heart ! 
I  '11  follow  to  the  death.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Street.     ELIZABETH  and  GUTA  at  the  door  of  a  Convent. 
Monks  in  the  Porch. 

Eliz.   You  are  afraid  to  shelter  me  —  afraid. 
And  so  you-  thrust  me  forth,  to  starve  and  freeze. 
Soon  said.     Why  palter  o'er  these  mean  excuses, 
Which  tempt  me  to  despise  you  ? 

Monks.  Ah  !  my  lady, 

We  know  your  kindness — but  we  poor  religious 
Are  bound  to  obey  God's  ordinance,  and  submit 
Unto  the  powers  that  be,  who  have  forbidden 
All  men,  alas !  to  give  you  food  or  shelter. 


246  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  HI. 


Eliz.     Silence !      I  '11  go.      Better   in   God's    hand 

man's. 

He  shall  kill  us,  if  we  die.     This  bitter  blast 
Warping  the  leafless  willows,  yon  white  snow-storms, 
Whose  wings,  like  vengeful  angels,  cope  the  vault, 
They  are  God's,  —  We  '11  trust  to  them.  [Monks  go  in. 

Guta.  Mean-spirited ! 

Fair  frocks  hide  foul  hearts.     Why,  their  altar  now 
Is  blazing  with  your  gifts. 

Eliz.  How  long  their  altar  ? 

To  God  I  gave  —  and  God  shall  pay  me  back. 
Fool !  to  have  put  rny  trust  in  living  man, 
And  fancied  that  I  bought  God's  love,  by  buying 
The  greedy  thanks  of  these  His  earthly  tools ! 
Well  —  here  's  one  lesson  learnt !     I  thank  thee,  Lord  ! 
Henceforth  I  '11  straight  to  Thee,  and  to  Thy  poor. 
What  ?     Isentrudis  not  returned  ?     Alas  ! 
Where  are  those  children  ? 

They  will  not  have  the  heart  to  keep  them  from  me  — 
Oh  !  have  the  traitors  harmed  them  ? 

Guta.  Do  not  think  it. 

The  dowager  has  a  woman's  heart. 

Eliz.  Ay,  ay  — 

But  she  's  a  mother  —  and  mothers  will  dare  all  things  — 
Oh !  Love  can  make  us  fiends,  as  well  as  angels. 
My  babies  !     Weeping  ?     Oh,  have  mercy,  Lord  ! 
On  me  heap  all  thy  wrath  —  I  understand  it : 
What  can  blind  senseless  terror  do  for  them  ? 

Guta.   Plead,  plead  your  penances  !     Great  God,  consider 
All  she  has  done  and  suffered,  and  forbear 
To  smite  her  like  a  worldling ! 

Eliz.  Silence,  girl ! 

I  'd  plead  my  deeds,  if  mine  own  character, 
My  strength  of  will  had  fathered  them  :  but  no  — 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  247 

They  are  His,  who  worked  them  in  me,  in  despite 

Of  mine  own  selfish  and  luxurious  will  — 

Shall  I  bribe  Him  with  His  own  ?     For  pain,  I  tell  thee 

I  need  more  pain  than  mine  own  will  inflicts, 

Pain  which  shall  break  that  will.  —  Yet  spare  them,  Lord  ! 

Go  to  —  I  am  a  fool  to  wish  them  life  — 

And  greater  fool  to  miscall  life,  this  headache  — 

This  nightmare  of  our  gross  and  crude  digestion  — 

This  fog  which  steams  up  from  our  freezing  clay  — 

While  waking  heaven  's  beyond.     No  !  slay  them,  traitors  ! 

Cut  through  the  channels  of  those  innocent  breaths 

Whose  music  charmed  my  lone  nights,  ere  they  learn 

To  love  the  world,  and  hate  the  wretch  who  bore  them  ! 

[  Weeps. 

Guta.   This   storm   will  blind  us   both :   come    here,   and 

shield  you 
Behind  this  buttress. 

Eliz.  What 's  a  wind  to  me  ? 

T  can  see  up  the  street  here,  if  they  come  — 
They  do  not  come!  —  Oh  !  my  poor  weanling  lambs  — 
Struck  dead  by  carrion  ravens ! 
What  then,  I  have  borne  worse.     But  yesterday 
I  thought  I  had  a  husband  — and  now —  now  ! 
Guta  !     He  called  a  holy  man  before  he  died  ? 

Guta.    The  Bishop  of  Jerusalem,  't  is  said, 
With  holy  oil,  and  with  the  blessed  body 
Of  him  for  whom  he  died,  did  speed  him  duly 
Upon  his  heavenward  flight. 

Eliz.  Oh  happy  bishop  ! 

Where  are  those  children  ?     If  I  had  but  seen  him  ! 
I  could  have  borne  all  then.     One  word  —  one  kiss! 
Hark!     What 's  that  rushing  !     White   doves  —  one  —  two  — 

three  — 
Fleeing  before  the  gale.     My  children's  spirits  ! 


248  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Stay,  babies  —  stay  for  me  !     What !     Not  a  moment  ? 
And  I  so  nearly  ready  to  be  gone  ? 

Guta.    Still  on  your  children  ? 

Eliz.  Oh  !  this  grief  is  light 

And  floats  a-top  —  well,  well  ;  it  hides  a  while 
That  gulf  too  black  for  speech  —  My  husband  's  dead  ! 
I  dare  not  think  on  't. 

A  small  bird  dead  in  the  snow!     Alas  !  poor  minstrel ! 
A  week  ago,  before  this  very  window, 
He  warbled,  may  be,  to  the  slanting  sunlight ; 
And  housewives  blest  him  for  a  merry  singer : 
And  now  he  freezes  at  their  doors,  like  me. 
Poor  foolish  brother  !  didst  thou  look  for  payment  ? 

Guta.    But  thou  hast  light  in  darkness  :  he  has  none  — 
The  bird  's  the  sport  of  time,  while  our  life's  floor 
Is  laid  upon  eternity ;  no  crack  in  it 
But  shows  the  underlying  heaven. 

Eliz.  Art  sure  ? 

Does  this  look  like  it,  girl !     No  —  I  '11  trust  yet  — 
Some  have  gone  mad  for  less  ;  but  why  should  I  ? 
Who  live  in  time,  and  not  eternity. 
'T  will  end,  girl,  end ;  no  cloud  across  the  sun 
But  passes  at  the  last,  and  gives  us  back 
The  face  of  God  once  more. 

Guta.  See  here  they  come, 

Dame  Isentrudis  and  your  children,  all 
Safe  down  the  cliff  path,  through  the  whirling  snowdrifts. 

Eliz.    Oh  Lord,  my  Lord  !     I  thank  thee ! 
Loving,  and  merciful,  and  tender-hearted, 
And  even  in  fiercest  wrath  remembering  mercy. 
Lo  !  here 's  my  ancient  foe.     What  want  you,  Sir  ? 

[HUGO  enters. 

Hugo.    Want?    Faith,  't  is  you  who  want,  not  I,  my  Lady  — 
I  hear,  you  are  gone  .a  begging  through  the  town ; 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  249 

So,  for  your  husband's  sake,  I  '11  take  you  in  ; 
For  though  I  can't  forget  your  scurvy  usage, 
He  was  a  very  honest  sort  of  fellow, 
Though  mad  as  a  March  hare  ;  so  come  you  in. 

Eliz.    But  know  you,  Sir,  that  all  my  husband's  vassals 
Are  bidden  bar  their  doors  to  me  ? 

Hugo.  I'  know  it : 

And  therefore  come  you  in  :  my  house  is  mine  : 
No  upstarts  shall  lay  down  the  law  to  me ; 
Not  they,  mass:  but  mind  you,  no  canting  here  — 
No  psalm-singing ;  all  candles  out  at  eight : 
Beggars  must  not  be  choosers.     Come  along  ! 

Eliz.    I  thank  you,  Sir;   and  for  my  children's  sake 
I  do  accept  your  bounty.     (Aside)   Down,  proud  heart  — 
Bend  lower  —  lower  ever  :  thus  God  deals  with  thee. 
Go,  Guta,  send  the  children  after  me. 

\Exeunt  severally. 
Two  Peasants  enter. 

\st  Peas.  Here  's  Father  January  taken  a  lease  of  March 
month,  and  put  in  Jack  Frost  for  bailiff.  What  be  I  to  do 
for  spring-feed  if  the  weather  holds,  —  and  my  ryelands  as 
bare  as  the  back  of  my  hand  ? 

zd  Peas.  That 's  your  luck.  Freeze  on,  say  I,  and  may 
Mary  Mother  send  us  snow  a  yard  deep.  I  have  ten  ton  of 
hay  yet  to  sell  —  ten  ton,  man  —  there  's  my  luck  :  every  man 
for  himself,  and  —  Why  here  comes  that  handsome  canting 
girl,  used  to  be  about  the  Princess. 

GUTA  enters. 

Guta.   WTell  met,  fair  sirs  !     I  know  you  kind  and  loyal, 
And  bound  by  many  a  favor  to  my  mistress : 
Say,  will  you  bear  this  letter  for  her  sake 
Unto  her  aunt,  the  rich  and  holy  lady 
Who  rules  the  nuns  of  Kitzingen  ? 


250  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

2 d  Peas.    If  I  do,  pickle  me  in  a  barrel  among  cabbage. 
She  told  me  once,  God's  curse  would  overtake  me, 
For  grinding  of  the  poor :  her  turn  's  come  now. 

Guta.    Will  you,  then,  help  her  ?     She  will  pay  you  richly. 

\st  Peas.    Ay  ?    How  dame  ?    How  ?    Where  will  the  money 
come  from  ? 

Guta.    God  knows — ' 

i st  Peas.  And  you  do  not. 

Guta.  Why,  but  last  winter, 

When  all  your  stacks  were  fired,  she  lent  you  gold. 

\st  Peas.   Well  —  I  '11  be  generous  :  as  the  times  are  hard, 
Say,  if  I  take  your  letter,  will  you  promise 
To  marry  me  yourself  ? 

Guta.  Ay,  marry  you, 

Or  anything,  if  you  '11  but  go  to-day  : 
At  once,  mind.  [Giving  him  the  letter. 

ist Peas.   Ay,  I  '11  go.     Now,  you'll  remember? 

Guta.    Straight  to  her  ladyship  at  Kitzingen. 
God  and  His  saints  deal  with  you,  as  you  deal 
With  us  this  day.  [Exit. 

2d  Peas.    What !  art  thou  fallen  in  love  promiscuously  ? 

ist  Peas.    Why,  see,  now,  man  ;  She  has  her  mistress'  ear; 
And  if  I  marry  her,  no  doubt  they  '11  make  me 
Bailiff,  or  land-steward  ;  and  there  's  noble  pickings 
In  that  same  line. 

id  Peas.  Thou  hast  bought  a  pig  in  a  poke  : 

Her  priest  will  shrive  her  off  from  such  a  bargain. 

ist  Peas.    Dost  think?     Well  —  I'll  not  fret  myself  about 

it. 

See,  now,  before  I  start,  I  must  get  home 
Those  pigs  from  off  the  forest ;  chop  some  furze ; 
And  then  to  get  my  supper,  and  my  horse's : 
And  then  a  man  will  need  to  sit  a  while, 
And  take  his  snack  of  brandy  for  digestion  ; 


SCENE  ir.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  251 

And  then  to  fettle  up  my  sword  and  buckler ; 

And  then,  bid  'em  all  good-bye  :  and  by  that  time 

'Twill  be  'most  nightfall  —  I'll  just  go  to-morrow. 

Off  —  here  she  comes  again.  \Exeunt. 

ISENTRUDIS  and  GUTA  enter,  with  the  Children. 

Guta.    I  warned  you  of  it ;  I  knew  she  would  not  stay 
An  hour,  thus  treated  like  a  slave  —  an  idiot. 

Isen.  Well,  't  was  past  bearing  :  so  we  are  thrust  forth 
To  starve  again.     Are  all  your  jewels  gone  ? 

Guta.    All  pawned  and  eaten  —  and  for  her,  you  know, 
She  never  bore  the  worth  of  one  day's  meal 
About  her  dress.     We  can  but  die  —  No  foe 
Can  ban  us  from  that  rest. 

Isen.    Ay,  but  these  children  ! — Well  —  if  it  must  be, 
Here,  Guta,  pull  off  this  old  withered  hand 
My  wedding-ring ;  the  man  who  gave  it  me 
Should  be  in  heaven  —  and  there  he  '11  know  my  heart. 
Take  it,  girl,  take  it.     Where  's  the  Princess  now  ? 
She  stopped  before  a  crucifix  to  pray ; 
But  why  so  long  ? 

Guta.  Oh  !  prayer,  to  her  rapt  soul, 

Is  like  the  drunkenness  of  the  autumn  bee, 
Who,  scent-enchanted,  on  the  latest  flower, 
Heedless  of  cold,  will  linger  listless  on, 
And  freeze  in  odorous  dreams. 

Isen.  Ah  !  here  she  comes. 

Guta.    Dripping  from  head  to  foot  with  wet  and  mire ! 
How  's  this  ? 

ELIZABETH  entering. 

Eliz.    How  ?     Oh,  my  fortune  rises  fco  full  flood  : 
I  met  a  friend  just  now,  who  told  me  truths 
Wholesome  and  stern,  of  my  deceitful  heart  — 
Would  God  I  had  known  them  earlier !  —  and  enforced 


THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 


Her  lesson  so,  as  I  shall  ne'er  forget  it 
In  body  or  in  mind. 

Isen.  What  means  all  this  ? 

Eliz.    You  know  the  stepping-stones  across  the  ford. 
There  as  I  passed,  a  certain  aged  crone, 
Whom  I  had  fed,  and  nursed,  year  after  year, 
Met  me  mid-stream  —  thrust  past  me  stoutly  on  — 
And  rolled  me  headlong  in  the  freezing  mire. 
There  as  I  lay  and  weltered,  —  "  Take  that,  Madam, 
For  all  your  selfish  hypocritic  pride 
Which  thought  it  such  a  vast  humility 
To  wash  us  poor  folk's  feet,  and  use  our  bodies 
For  staves  to  build  withal  your  Jacob's  ladder. 
What  !  you  would  mount  to  heaven  upon  our  backs  ? 
The  ass  has  thrown  his  rider."     She  crept  on  — 
I  washed  my  garments  in  the  brook  hard  by  — 
And  came  here,  all  the  wiser. 

Guta.  Miscreant  hag  ! 

Isen.    Alas,  you  '11  freeze. 

Guta.  Who  could  have  dreamt  the  witch 

Could  harbor  such  a  spite  ? 

Eliz.  Nay,  who  could  dream 

She  would  have  guessed  my  heart  so  well  ?     Dull  boors 
See  deeper  than  we  think,  and  hide  within 
Those  leathern  hulls  unfathomable  truths, 
Which  we  amid  thought's  glittering  mazes  lose. 
They  grind  among  the  iron  facts  of  life, 
And  have  no  time  for  self-deception. 

Isen.  Come  — 

Put  on  my  cloak  —  stand  here,  behind  the  wall. 
Oh  !  is  it  come  to  this  ?     She  '11  die  of  cold. 

Guta.    Ungrateful  fiend  ! 

Eliz.  Let  be  —  we  must  not  think  on  't. 

The  scoff  was  true  —  I  thank  her  —  I  thank  God  — 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2$$ 

This  too  I  needed.     I  had  built  myself 

A  Babel-tower,  whose  top  should  reach  to  heaven, 

Of  poor  men's  praise  and  prayers,  and  subtle  pride 

At  mine  own  alms.     'Tis  crumbled  into  dust! 

Oh !  I  have  leant  upon  an  arm  of  flesh  — 

And  here  's  its  strength  !     I  '11  walk  by  faith  —  by  faith 

And  rest  my  weary  heart  on  Christ  alone  — 

On  him,  the  all-sufficient ! 

Shame  on  me  !  dreaming  thus  about  myself. 

While  you  stand  shivering  here. 

[To  her  little  Son. 
Art  cold,  young  knight  ? 

Knights  must  not  cry  —  Go  slide,  and  warm  thyself. 
Where  shall  we  lodge  to-night  ? 

Isen.  There 's  no  place  open, 

But  that  foul  tavern,  where  we  lay  last  night. 

Elizabeth's  Son  (clinging  to  her).    Oh,  mother,  mother !  go 

not  to  that  house  — 

Among  those  fierce  lank  men,  who  laughed,  and  scowled, 
And  showed  their  knives,  and  sang  strange  ugly  songs 
Of  you  and  us.     Oh  mother !  let  us  be  ! 

Eliz.   Hark  !  look  !     His  fathers  voice  !  —  his  very  eye  — 
Opening  so  slow  and  sad,  then  sinking  down 
In  luscious  rest  again  ! 

Isen.  Bethink  you,  child  — 

Eliz.    Oh  yes —  I  '11  think  —  we  '11  to  our  tavern  friends  ; 
If  they  be  brutes,  't  was  my  sin  left  them  so. 

Guta.    'T  is  but  for  a  night  or  two  :  three  days  will  bring 
The  Abbess  hither. 

Isen.  And  then  to  Bamberg  straight 

For  knights  and  men-at-arms  !     Your  uncle's  wrath  — 

Guta  (aside).  Hush  !  hush !  you  '11  fret  her,  if  you  talk  of 
vengeance. 

Isen.   Come  to  our  shelter. 


254  THE  SAfA'T^S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Children.  Oh  stay  here,  stay  here  ! 

Behind  these  walls. 

Eliz.    Ay  —  stay  a  while  in  peace.     The  storms  are  still. 
Beneath  her  eider  robe  the  patient  earth 
Watches  in  silence  for  the  sun  :  we  '11  sit 
And  gaze  up  with  her  at  the  changeless  heaven, 
Until  this  tyranny  be  overpast. 
Come,     (aside)  Lost !     Lost !     Lost ! 

\They  enter  a  neighboring  Ruin. 


SCENE  III. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Bishop's  Palace  at  Bamberg.     ELIZABETH 
and  GUTA. 

Guta.   You  have  determined  ? 

Eliz.  Yes  —  to  go  with  him. 

I  have  kept  my  oath  too  long  to  break  it  now. 
I  will  to  Marpurg,  and  there  waste  away 
In  meditation  and  in  pious  deeds, 
Till  God  shall  set  me  free. 

Guta.  How  if  your  uncle 

Will  have  you  marry  ?     Day  and  night,  they  say, 
He  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Eliz.  Never,  girl,  never! 

Save  me  from  that  at  least,  oh,  God  ! 

Guta.  He  spoke 

Of  giving  us,  your  maidens,  to  his  knights 
In  carnal  wedlock:  but  I  fear  him  not: 
For  God's  own  word  is  pledged  to  keep  me  pure  — 
I  am  a  maid. 

Eliz.  And  I,  alas !  am  none  ! 

Oh,  Guta  !  dost  thou  mock  my  widowed  love  ? 
I  was  a  wife  —  't  is  true  :  I  was  not  worthy  — 


SCENE  ill.  Till-:  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  255 

But  there  was  meaning  in  that  first  wild  fancy; 

'Twas  but  the  innocent  springing  of  the  sap  — 

The  witless  yearning  of  an  homeless  heart  — 

Do  I  not  know  that  God  has  pardoned  me  ? 

But  now  —  to  rouse  and  turn  of  mine  own  will, 

In  cool  and  full  foreknowledge,  this  worn  soul 

Again  to  that,  which,  when  God  thrust  it  on  me, 

Bred  but  one  shame  of  ever-gnawing  doubt, 

Were  —  No,  my  burning  cheeks  !     We  '11  say  no  more. 

Ah !    loved  and  lost !     Though  God's  chaste   grace  should 

fail  me, 

My  weak  idolatry  of  thee  would  give 

Strength  that  should  keep  me  true  :  with  mine  own  hands 
I  'd  mar  this  tear-worn  face,  till  petulant  man 
Should  loath  its  scarred  and  shapeless  ugliness. 

Guta.    But  your  poor  children  ?     What  becomes  of  them  ? 

Eliz.    Oh  !  she  who  was  not  worthy  of  a  husband 
Does  not  deserve  his  children.     What  are  they,  darlings, 
But  snares  to  keep  me  from  my  heavenly  spouse 
By  picturing  the  spouse  I  must  forget  ? 
Well  —  't  is  blank  horror.     Yet  if  grief 's  good  for  me, 
Let  me  down  into  grief's  blackest  pit, 
And  follow  out  God's  cure  by  mine  own  deed. 

Guta.    What  will  your  kinsfolk  think  ? 

Eliz.  What  will  they  think  ! 

What  pleases  them.     That  argument 's  a  staff 
Which  breaks  whene'er  you  lean  on  't.     Trust  me,  girl, 
That  fear  of  man  sucks  out  love's  soaring  ether, 
Baffles  faith's  heavenward  eyes,  and  drops  us  down, 
To  float,  like  plumeless  birds,  on  any  stream. 
Have  I  not  proved  it  ? 
There  was  a  time  with  me,  when  every  eye 
Did  scorch  like  flame  :  if  one  looked  cold  on  me, 
I  straight  accused  myself  of  mortal  sins : 


256  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Each  fopling  was  my  master :  I  have  lied 

From  very  fear  of  mine  own  serving-maids. 

That 's  past,  thank  God's  good  grace  ! 

Guta.  And  now  you  leap 

To  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

Eliz.  In  self-defence. 

I  am  too  weak  to  live  by  half  my  conscience ; 
I  have  no  wit  to  weigh  and  choose  the  mean ; 
Life  is  too  short  for  logic  ;  what  I  do 
I  must  do  simply;  God  alone  must  judge  — 
For  God  alone  shall  guide,  and  God's  elect — 
I  shrink  from  earth's  chill  frosts  too  much  to  crawl  — 
I  have  snapped  opinion's  chains,  and  now  I  '11  soar 
Up  to  the  blazing  sunlight,  and  be  free. 

The  BISHOP  <?/"BAMBERG  enters.     CONRAD  following. 

Bishop.  The  Devil  plagued  St.  Antony  in  the  likeness  of  a 
lean  friar  !  Between  mad  monks  and  mad  women,  bedlam  's 
broke  loose,  I  think. 

Con.  When  the  spirit  first  descended  on  the  elect,  seculars 
then,  too,  said  mocking,  "These  men  are  full  of  new  wine." 

Bishop.  Seculars,  truly !  If  I  had  not  in  my  secularity 
picked  up  a  spice  of  chivalry  to  the  ladies,  I  should  long  ago 
have  turned  out  you  and  your  regulars,  to  cant  elsewhere. 
Plague  on  this  gout  —  I  must  sit. 

Eliz.    Let  me  settle  your  cushion,  uncle. 

Bishop.  So !  girl !  I  sent  for  you  from  Botenstain.  I  had 
a  mind,  now,  to  have  kept  you  there  until  your  wits  returned, 
and  you  would  say  Yes  to  some  young  noble  suitor.  As  if  I 
had  not  had  trouble  enough  about  your  clower  !  —  If  I  had  had 
to  fight  for  it,  I  should  not  have  minded  :  —  but  these  palavers 
and  conferences  have  fretted  me  into  the  gout :  and  now  you 
would  throw  all  away  again,  tired  with  your  toy,  I  suppose. 
What  shall  I  say  to  the  Counts,  Varila,  and  the  Cupbearer, 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINTS  TRAGEDY.  2$? 

and  all  the  noble  knights  who  will  hazard  their  lands 
and  lives,  in  trying  to  right  you  with  that  traitor?  I  am 
ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face !  To  give  all  up  to  the 
villain! — To  pay  him  for  his  treason  ! 

Eliz.  Uncle,  I  give  but  what  to  me  is  worthless.  He 
loves  these  baubles  —  let  him  keep  them,  then  :  I  have  my 
dower. 

Bishop.  To  squander  on  nuns  and  beggars,  at  this  rogue's 
bidding  ?  Why  not  marry  some  honest  man  ?  You  may 
have  your  choice  of  kings  and  princes  ;  and  if  you  have  been 
happy  with  one  gentleman,  Mass !  say  I,  why  can't  you  be 
happy  with  another  ?  What  saith  the  Scripture  ?  "  I  will 
that  the  younger  widows  marry,  bear  children,"  —  not  run 
after  monks,  and  what  not  —  What's  good  for  the  filly,  is 
good  for  the  mare,  say  I. 

Eliz.    Uncle,  I  soar  now  at  a  higher  pitch  — 
To  be  henceforth  the  bride  of  Christ  alone. 

Bishop.  Ahem!  —  a  pious  notion — in  moderation.  We 
must  be  moderate,  my  child,  moderate  :  I  hate  overdoing 
anything  —  especially  religion. 

Con.    Madam,  between  your  uncle  and  myself 
This  question  in  your  absence  were  best  mooted. 

\_Exit  ELIZABETH. 

Bishop.  How,  priest?  do  you  order  her  about  like  a 
servant-maid  ? 

Con.    The  saints  forbid  !     Now  —  ere  I  lose  a  moment  — 

\Kneeling. 

(Aside)  All  things  to  all  men  be  —  and  so  save  some  — 
(Aloud)  Forgive,  your  grace,  forgive  me, 
If  mine  unmannered  speech  in  aught  have  clashed 
With  your  more  tempered  and  melodious  judgment : 
Your  courage  will  forgive  an  honest  warmth. 
God  knows  I  serve  no  private  interests. 

Bishop.   Your  order's,  hey  ?  to  wit  ? 


258  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Con.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

There  may  be  higher  aims  :  but  what  I  said, 
I  said  but  for  our  Church,  and  our  cloth's  honor. 
Ladies'  religion,  like  their  love,  we  know, 
Requires  a  gloss  of  verbal  exaltation, 
Lest  the  sweet  souls  should  understand  themselves ; 
And  clergymen  must  talk  up  to  the  mark. 

Bishop.   We  ail   know,  Gospel   preached   in   the   mother- 
tongue 
Sounds  too  like  common  sense. 

Con.  Or  too  unlike  it : 

You  know  the  world,  your  grace  ;  you  know  the  sex  — 

Bishop.    Ahem  !  As  a  spectator. 

Con.  Philosophice  — 

Just  so  —  You  know  their  rage  for  shaven  crowns  — 
How  they'll  deny  their  God  —  but  not  their  priests — • 
Flirts  —  scandal-mongers  —  in  default  of  both  come 
Platonic  love  —  worship  of  art  and  genius  — 
Idols  which  make  them  dream  of  heaven,  as  girls 
Dream  of  their  sweethearts,  when  they  sleep  on  bride-cake. 
It  saves  from  worse  —  we  are  not  all  Abelards. 

Bishop  (aside).    Some    of   us   have   his   tongue,  if   not  his 
face. 

Con.    There  lies  her  fancy  ;  do  but  balk  her  of  it  — 
She  ''11  bolt  to  cloisters,  like  a  rabbit  scared. 
Head  her  from  that —  she  '11  wed  some  pink-faced  boy  — 
The  more  low-bred  and  penniless,  the  likelier. 
Send  her  to  Marpurg,  and  her  brain  will  cool. 
Tug  at  the  kite,  't  will  only  soar  the  higher : 
Give  it  but  line,  my  lord, 'twill  drop  like  slate. 
Use  but  that  eagle's  glance,  whose  daring  foresight 
In  chapter,  camp,  and  council,  wins  the  wonder 
Of  timid  trucklers  —  Scan  results  and  outcomes  — 
The  scale  is  heavy  in  your  grace's  favor. 


•SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT1  S  TRAGEDY.  2 59 

Bishop.    Bah !    priest !     What   can   this   Marpurg-madness 
do  for  me  ? 

Con.    Leave  you  the  tutelage  of  all  her  children. 

Bishop.   Thank    you  —  to    play    the    dry-nurse    to    three 
starving  brats. 

Con.    The  minor's  guardian  guards  the  minor's  lands. 

Bishop.    Unless  they  are  pitched  away  in  building  hospitals. 

Con.    Instead  of  fattening  in  your  wisdom's  keeping. 

Bishop.    Well,  well,  —  but  what  gross  scandal  to  the  family  i 

Con.    The  family,  my  lord,  would  gain  a  saint. 

Bishop.    Ah  !  monk,  that  canonization  costs  a  frightful  sum. 

Con.   These  fees,  just  now,  would  gladly  be  remitted. 

Bishop.    These  are  the  last  days,  faith,  when  Rome  's  too 
rich  to  take! 

Con.    The  Saints  forbid,  my  lord,  the  fisher's  see 
Were  so  o'ercursed  by  Mammon  !     But  you  grieve, 
I  know,  to  see  foul  weeds  of  heresy 
Of  late  o'errun  your  diocese. 

Bishop.  Ay,  curse  them  ! 

I  've  hanged  some  dozens. 

Con.  Worthy  of  yourself ! 

But  yet  the  faith  needs  here  some  mighty  triumph  — 
Some  bright  example,  whose  resplendent  blaze 
May  tempt  that  fluttering  tribe  within  the  pale 
Of  Holy  Church  again  — 

Bishop.  To  singe  their  wings  ? 

Con.    They  '11  not  come  near  enough.     Again  —  there  are 
Who  dare  arraign  your  prowess,  and  assert 
A  churchman's  energies  were  better  spent 
In  pulpits  than  the  tented  field.     Now  mark  — 
Mark,  what  a  door  is  open.     Give  but  scope 
To  this  her  huge  capacity  for  sainthood  — 
Set  her,  a  burning  and  a  shining  light 
To  all  your  people  —  Such  a  sacrifice, 


260  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

Such  loan  to  God  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood, 

Will  silence  envious  tongues,  and  prove  you  wise 

For  the  next  world  as  for  this  ;  will  clear  your  name 

From  calumnies  which  argue  worldliness ; 

Buy  of  itself  the  joys  of  paradise ; 

And  clench  your  lordship's  interest  with  the  pontiff. 

Bishop.    Well,  well,  we  '11  think  on  't. 

Con.  Sir,  I  doubt  you  not. 

Re-enter  ELIZABETH. 

Eliz.    Uncle,  I  am  determined. 

Bishop.  So  am  I. 

You  shall  to  Marpurg  with  this  holy  man. 

Eliz.   Ah,  there  you  speak  again  like  my  own  uncle. 
I  '11  go  —  to  rest  (aside]  and  die.     I  only  wait 
To  see  the  bones  of  my  beloved  laid 
In  some  fit  resting-place.     A  messenger 
Proclaims  them  near.     Oh,  God  ! 

Bishop.  We  ?11  go,  my  child, 

And  meeting  them  with  all  due  honor,  show 
In  our  own  worship,  honorable  minds. 

[Exit  ELIZABETH. 

Bishop.    A  messenger  !     How  far  off  are  they,  then  ? 

Serv.    Some  two  days'  journey,  sir. 

Bishop.  Two  days'  journey,  and  nought  prepared  ?  Here, 
chaplain  —  Brother  Hippodamas  !  Chaplain,  I  say  !  (HiPPO 
DAMAS  enters?)  Call  the  apparitor  —  ride  off  with  him,  right 
and  left  —  Don't  wait  even  to  take  your  hawk  —  Tell  my 
knights  to  be  with  me,  with  all  their  men-at-arms,  at  noon  on 
the  second  day.  Let  all  be  of  the  best,  say  —  the  brightest 
of  arms  and  the  newest  of  garments.  Mass !  we  must  show 
our  smartest  before  these  crusaders  —  they'll  be  full  of  new 
fashions,  I  warrant  'em  —  the  monkeys  that  have  seen  the 
world.  And  here,  boy  (to  a  PAGE),  set  me  a  stoup  of  wine 
in  the  oriel-room,  and  another  for  this  good  monk. 


SCENE  IV. 


THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  26 1 


Con.    Pardon  me,  blessedness  —  but  holy  rule  — 
Bishop.    Oh !  I  forgot. —  A  pail   of   water  and   a  peck  of 
beans  for  the  holy  man  !  — Order  up  my  equerry,  and  bid  my 
armorer  —  vestryman,  I  mean  —  look  out  my  newest  robes. — 
Plague  on  this  gout. 

\Exeunt,  following  the  Bishop. 

SCENE  IV. 

The  Nave  of  Bamberg  Cathedral.  A  procession  entering  the 
West  Door,  headed  by  ELIZABETH  and  the  Bishop,  Nobles,  etc. 
Religious  bearing  the  Coffin  which  encloses  LEWIS'S  Bones. 

\st  Lady.    See  !  the  procession  comes  —  the  mob  streams  in 
At  every  door.     Hark  !  how  the  steeples  thunder 
Their  solemn  bass  above  the  wailing  choir. 

zd  Lady.    They  will  stop  at  the  screen. 

Knight.  And  there,  as  I  hear,  open  the  coffin.  Push  for- 
ward, ladies,  to  that  pillar:  thence  you  will  see  all. 

\st  Peas.  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  If  any  man  had  told  me  that 
I  should  ride  forty  miles  on  this  errand,  to  see  him  that  went 
out  flesh  come  home  grass,  like  the  flower  of  the  field  ! 

2d  Peas.  We  have  changed  him,  but  not  mended  him,  say  I, 
friend. 

ist  Peas.  Never  we.  He  knew  where  a  yeoman's  heart 
lay !  One  that  would  clap  a  man  on  the  back  when  his  cow 
died,  and  behaved  like  a  gentleman  to  him  —  that  never  met 
you  after  a  hailstorm  without  lightening  himself  of  a  few 
pocket-burners. 

id  Peas.  Ay,  that's  your  poor-man's  plaster:  that's  your 
right  grease  for  this  world's  creaking  wheels. 

i st  Peas.  Nay.  that 's  your  rich  man's  plaster  too,  and  covers 
the  multitude  of  sins.  That's  your  big  pike's  swimming- 
bladder,  that  keeps  him  a-top  and  feeding  :  that 's  his  calling 


262  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

and  election,  his  oil  of  anointing,  his  salvum  fac  regem,  his 
yeoman  of  the  wardrobe,  who  keeps  the  velvet-piled  side  of 
this  world  uppermost,  lest  his  delicate  eyes  should  see  the 
warp  that  holds  it. 

2d  Peas.    Who  's  the  warp,  then  ? 

ist Peas.  We,  man,  the  friezes  and  fustians,  that  rub  on  till 
we  get  frayed  through  with  overwork,  and  then  all 's  abroad, 
and  the  nakedness  of  Babylon  is  discovered,  and  catch  who 
catch  can. 

Old  Woman.  Pity  they  only  brought  his  bones  home ! 
He  would  make  a  lovely  corpse,  surely.  He  was  a  proper 
man  ! 

ist  Lady.  Oh  the  mincing  step  he  had  with  him  !  and  the 
delicate  hand  on  a  horse,  fingering  the  reins  as  St.  Cicely 
does  the  organ-keys ! 

2 d  Lady.    And  for  hunting,  another  Siegfried. 

Knight.  If  he  was  Siegfried  the  gay,  she  was  Chriemhild 
the  grim ;  and  as  likely  to  prove  a  firebrand  as  the  girl  in  the 
ballad. 

ist  Lady.  Gay,  indeed  !  His  smiles  were  like  plumcake, 
the  sweeter  the  deeper  iced.  I  never  saw  him  speak  civil 
word  to  woman,  but  to  her. 

2d  Lady.  Oh,  ye  Saints !  There  was  honey  spilt  on  the 
ground !  If  I  had  such  a  knight,  I  'd  never  freeze  alone  on 
the  chamber-floor,  like  some  that  never  knew  when  they  were 
well  off.  I  'd  never  elbow  him  off  to  crusades  with  my 
pruderies. 

"  Pluck  your  apples  while  they  're  ripe, 

And  pull  your  flowers  in  May,  O  !  " 
Eh!  Mother? 

Old  Woman.    "  Till  when  she  grew  wizened,  and  he  grew 

cold, 
The  balance  lay  even  'twixt  young  and  old." 

Monk.   Thus    Satan   bears   witness    perforce    against    the 


SCENE  iv.  THE  SAIXTS   TRAGEDY.  263 

vanities  of  Venus  !  But  what 's  this  babbling  ?  Carolationes 
in  the  holy  place?  Tace,  vetula !  taceas,  taceto  also,  and 
that  forthwith. 

Old  Woman.  Tace  in  your  teeth,  and  taceas  also,  begging- 
box  !  Who  put  the  halter  round  his  waist  to  keep  it  off  his 
neck,  —  who?  Get  behind  your  screen,  sirrah!  Am  I  not 
a  burgher's  wife  ?  Am  I  not  in  the  nave  ?  Am  I  not  on  my 
own  ground  ?  Have  I  brought  up  eleven  children,  without 
nurse  wet  or  dry,  to  be  taced  nowadays  by  friars  in  the  nave? 
Help  !  good  folks  !  Where  be  these  rooks  a  going  ? 

Knight.    The  monk  has  vanished. 

\st  Peas.  It 's  ill  letting  out  waters,  he  finds.  Who  is  that 
old  gentleman,  sir,  holds  the  Princess  so  tight  by  the 
hand  ? 

Knight.    Her  uncle,  knave,  the  Bishop. 

i st  Peas.  Very  right,  he  :  for  she  's  almost  a  born  natural, 
poor  soul.  It  was  a  temptation  to  deal  with  her. 

2d  Peas.  Thou  didst  cheat  her  shockingly,  Frank,  time  o' 
the  famine,  on  those  nine  sacks  of  maslin  meal. 

Knight.  Go  tell  her  of  it,  rascal,  and  she  '11  thank  you  for 
it,  and  give  you  a  shilling  for  helping  her  to  a  "  cross." 

Old  Woman.  Taceing  free  women  in  the  nave !  This 
comes  of  your  princesses,  that  turn  the  world  upside  down, 
and  demean  themselves  to  hob  and  nob  with  these  black 
baldicoots ! 

Eliz.  (in  a  low  voice).    I  saw  all  Israel  scattered  on  the  hills 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd  !     Oh,  my  people  ! 
Who  crowd  with  greedy  eyes  round  this  my  jewel, 
Poor  ivory,  token  of  his  outward  beauty  — 
Oh  !  had  ye  known  his  spirit !  —  Let  his  wisdom 
Inform  your  light  hearts  with  that  Saviour's  likeness 
For  whom  he  died !     So  had  ye  kept  him  with  you  ; 
And  from  the  coming  evils  gentle  Heaven 
Had  not  withdrawn  the  righteous  :  't  is  too  late  ! 


264  THE  SAIXT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  in. 

ist  Lady.  There  now,  she  smiles ;  do  you  think  she  ever 
loved  him  ? 

Knight.  Never  creature,  but  mealy-mouthed  inquisitors,  and 
shaven  singing  birds.  She  looks  now  as  glad  to  be  rid  of 
him  as  any  colt  broke  loose. 

\st  Lady.    What  will  she  do  now,  when  this  farce  is  over? 

2.d  Lady.  Found  an  abbey,  that 's  the  fashion,  and  elect 
herself  abbess  —  set  up  the  first  week  for  queen-of-all-souls  — 
tyrannize  over  hysterical  girls,  who  are  forced  to  thank  her 
for  making  them  miserable,  and  so  die  a  saint. 

K7iight.    Will  you  pray  to  her,  my  fair  queen  ? 

id  Lady.  Not  I,  sir;  the  old  Saints  send  me  lovers 
enough,  and  to  spare  —  yourself  for  one. 

\stLady.  There  is  the  giant-killer  slain.  But  see  —  they 
have  stopped  :  who  is  that  raising  the  coffin  lid  ? 

2.d  Lady.    Her  familiar  spirit,  Conrad  the  heretic-catcher. 

Knight.  I  do  defy  him  !  Thou  art  my  only  goddess  ;  My 
saint,  my  idol,  my  —  ahem  ! 

\st  Lady.  That  well 's  run  dry. 

Look,  how  she  trembles  —  Now  she  sinks,  all  shivering, 
Upon  the  pavement  —  Why,  you'll  see  nought  there 
Flirting  behind  the  pillar  —  Now  she  rises  — 
And  choking  down  that  proud  heart,  turns  to  the  altar  — 
Her  hand  upon  the  coffin. 

Eliz.    I  thank  thee,  gracious  Lord,  who  hast  fulfilled 
Thine  handmaid's  mighty  longings,  with  the  sight 
Of  my  beloved's  bones,  and  dost  vouchsafe 
This  consolation  to  the  desolate. 
I  grudge  not,  Lord,  the  victim  which  we  gave  Thee, 
Both  he  and  I,  of  his  most  precious  life, 
To  aid  Thine  holy  city :  though  Thou  knowest 
His  sweetest  presence  was  to  this  world's  joy 
As  sunlight  to  the  taper  —  Oh  !  hadst  thou  spared — • 
Had  Thy  great  mercy  let  us,  hand  in  hand, 


SCENE  iv.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  26$ 

Have  toiled  through  houseless  shame,  on  beggar's  dole, 

I  had  been  blest :  Thou  hast  him,  Lord,  Thou  hast  him  — 

Do  with  us  what  Thou  wilt !     If  at  the  price 

Of  this  one  silly  hair,  in  spite  of  Thee, 

I  could  reclothe  these  wan  bones  with  his  manhood, 

And  clasp  to  my  shrunk  heart  my  hero's  self  — 

1  would  not  give  it ! 

I  will  weep  no  more  — 
Lead  on,  most  holy ;  on  the  sepulchre 
Which  stands  beside  the  choir,  lay  down  your  burden. 

[To  the  people. 

Now,  gentle  hosts,  within  the  close  hard  by, 
Will  we  our  court,  as  queen  of  sorrows,  hold  — 
The  greert  graves  underneath  us,  and  above 
The  all-seeing  vault,  which  is  the  eye  of  God, 
Judge  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless. 
There  will  I  plead  my  children's  wrongs,  and  there, 
If  as  I  think,  there  boil  within  your  veins 
The  deep  sure  currents  of  your  race's  manhood, 
Ye  '11  nail  the  orphans'  badge  upon  your  shields, 
And  own  their  cause  for  God's.     We  name  our  champions  — 
Rudolf,  the  Cupbearer,  Leutolf  of  Erlstetten, 
Hartwig  of  Erba,  and  our  loved  Count  Walter, 
Our  knights  and  vassals,  sojourners  among  you. 
Follow  us. 

[Exit  ELIZABETH,  etc. ;  the  crowd  following. 


266  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY,  ACT  iv. 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Night.      The   Church   of  a    Convent.     ELIZABETH,    CONRAD, 

GERARD,  Monks,  an  Abbess,  Nuns,  etc.,  in  the  distance. 

Conrad.    What 's  this  new  weakness?    At  your  own  request 

We  come  to  hear  your  self-imposed  vows 

And  now  you  shrink  :  where  are  the  high-flown  fancies 
Which  but  last  week,  beside  your  husband's  bier, 
You  vapored  forth  ?     Will  you  become  a  jest  ? 
You  might  have  counted  this  tower's  cost,  before 
You  blazoned  thus  your  plans  abroad. 

Eliz.  Oh  !  spare  me  ! 

Con.    Spare?     Spare  yourself  ;  and  spare  big  easy  words, 
Which  prove  your  knowledge  greater  than  your  grace. 

Eliz.    Is  there  no  middle  path  ?     No  way  to  keep 
My  love  for  them,  and  God,  at  once  unstained  ? 

Con.    If  this  were  God's  world,  Madam,  and  not  the  devil's, 
It  might  be  done. 

Eliz.    God's  world,  man!     Why,  God  made  it  — 
The  faith  asserts  it  God's. 

Con.  Potentially  — 

As  every  christened  rogue  's  a  child  of  God, 
Or  those  old  hags,  Christ's  brides  —  Think  of  your  hornbook  — 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  —  a  goodly  leash ! 
And  yet  God  made  all  three.     I  know  the  fiend ; 
And  you  should  know  the  world  :  be  sure,  be  sure, 
The  flesh  is  not  a  stork  among  the  cranes. 
Our  nature,  even  in  Eden  gross  and  vile, 
And  by  miraculous  grace  alone  upheld, 
Is  now  itself,  and  foul,  and  damned,  must  die 
Ere  we  can  live;  let  halting  worldlings,  madam, 
Maunder  against  earth's  ties,  yet  clutch  them  still. 


SCENE  I.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  267 

Eliz.    And  yet  God  gave  them  to  me  — 

Con.  In  the  world  ; 

Your  babes  are  yours  according  to  the  flesh ; 
How  can  you  hate  the  flesh,  and  love  its  fruit  ? 

Eliz.   The  Scripture  bids  me  love  them. 

Con.  Truly  so, 

While  you  are  forced  to  keep  them  ;  when  God's  mercy 
Doth  from  the  flesh  and  world  deliverance  offer, 
Letting  you  bestow  them  elsewhere,  then  your  love 
May  cease  with  its  own  usefulness,  and  the  spirit 
Range  in  free  battle  lists;  I  '11  not  waste  reasons  — 
We  '11  leave  you,-  Madam,  to  the  Spirit's  voice. 

[CONRAD  and  GERARD  withdraw. 

Eliz.  (alone].    Give  up  his  children  !     Why,  I  'd  not  give  up 
A  lock  of  hair,  a  glove  his  hand  had  hallowed  : 
And  they  are  his  gift ;  his  flesh  and  blood 
Tossed  off  for  my  ambition  !     Ah  !  my  husband  ! 
His  ghost's  sad  eyes  upbraid  me  !     Spare  me,  spare  me  ! 
I  'd  love  thee  still,  if  I  dared  ;  but  I  fear  God. 
And  shall  I  never  more  see  loving  eyes 
Look  into  mine,  until  my  dying  day  ? 
That 's  this  world's  bondage  :  Christ  would  have  me  free, 
And  't  were  a  pious  deed  to  cut  myself 
The  last,  last  strand,  and  fly:  but  whither?  whither? 
What  if  I  cast  away  the  bird  i'  the  hand 
And  found  none  in  the  bush  ?     'Tis  possible  — 
What  right  have  I  to  arrogate  Christ's  bride-bed? 
Crushed,  widowed,  sold  to  traitors  ?     I,  o'er  whom 
His   billows    and    His    storms    are    sweeping?      God's    not 

angry: 

No,  not  so  much  as  we  with  buzzing  fly ; 
Or  in  the  moment  of  His  wrath's  awakening 
We  should  be  —  nothing.     No  —  there  's  worse  than  that  — 
What  if  He  but  sat  still,  and  let  be  be  ? 


2C8  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

And  these  deep  sorrows,  which  my  vain  conceit 

Calls  chastenings  —  meant  for  me  —  my  ailment's  cure  — 

Were  lessons  for  some  angels  far  away, 

And  I  the  corpus  vile  for  the  experiment  ? 

The  grinding  of  the  sharp  and  pitiless  wheels 

Of  some  high  Providence,  which  had  its  mainspring 

Ages  ago,  and  ages  hence  its  end  ? 

That  were  too  horrible  !  — 

To  have  torn  up  all  the  roses  from  my  garden, 

And  planted  thorns  instead  ;  to  have  forged  my  griefs, 

And  hugged  the  griefs  I  dared  not  forge;  made  earth 

A  hell,  for  hope  of  heaven  ;  and  after  all, 

These  homeless  moors  of  life  toiled  through,  to  wake, 

And  find  blank  nothing  !     Is  that  angel-world 

A  gaudy  window,  which  we  paint  ourselves 

To  hide  the  dead  void  night  beyond  ?     The  present  ? 

Why  here's  the  present  —  like  this  arched  gloom, 

It  hems  our  blind  souls  in,  and  roofs  them  over 

With  adamantine  vault,  whose  only  voice 

Is  our  own  wild  prayers'  echo  :  and  our  future  ? 

It  rambles  out  in  endless  aisles  of  mist, 

The  farther  still  the  darker  —  Oh,  my  Saviour  ! 

My  God  !  where  art  Thou  ?     That 's  but  a  tale  about  Thee, 

That  crucifix  above  —  it  does  but  show  Thee 

As  Thou  wast  once,  but  not  as  Thou  art  now  — 

Thy  grief,  but  not  Thy  glory  :  where  's  that  gone  ? 

I  see  it  not  without  me,  and  within  me 

Hell  reigns,  not  Thou  ! 

\_Dashes  herself  down  on  the  altar  steps. 

Monks  in  the  distance  chanting. 

"  Kings'  daughters  were  among  thine  honorable  women  "  — 
Eliz.  Kings'  daughters  !     I  am  one  ! 


SCENE  i.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  269 

Monks.    "Hearken,    oh,    daughter,   and   consider;    incline 

thine  ear: 

Forget  also  thine  own  people,  and  thy  father's  house, 
So  shall  the  King  have  pleasure  in  thy  beauty : 
For  He  is  Thy  Lord  God,  and  worship  Thou  Him." 

Eliz.  (springing  up).   I  will  forget  them  ! 
They  stand  between  my  soul  and  its  allegiance. 
Thou  art  my  God  :  what  matter  if  Thou  love  me  ? 
I  am  thy  bond-slave,  purchased  with  Thy  life-blood ; 
Irwill  remember  nothing,  save  that  debt. 
Do  with  me  what  Thou  wilt.     Alas,  my  babies ! 
He  loves  them  —  they  '11  not  need  me. 

CONRAD  advancing. 

Con.  How  now,  Madam  ! 

Have  these  your  prayers  unto  a  nobler  will 
Won  back  that  wandering  heart  ? 

Eliz.  God's  will  is  spoken  ! 

The  flesh  is  weak ;  the  spirit 's  fixed,  and  dares,  — 
Stay !  confess,  sir, 

Did  not  yourself  set  on  your  brothers  here 
To  sing  me  to  your  purpose  ? 

Con.  As  I  live 

I  mean  it  not ;  yet  had  I  bribed  them  to  it, 
Those  words  were  no  less  God's. 

Eliz.  I  know  it,  I  know  it ; 

And  I  '11  obey  them  :  come,  the  victim  's  ready. 
[Lays  her  hand  on  the  altar.     GERARD,  Abbess,  and  Monks 

aesccnd  and  advance^ 

All  worldly  goods  and  wealth,  which  once  I  loved, 
I  do  now  count  but  dross  :  and  my  beloved, 
The  children  of  my  womb,  I  now  regard 
As  if  they  were  another's.     God  is  witness. 
My  pride  is  to  despise  myself;  my  joy 
All  insults,  sneers,  and  slanders  of  mankind  ; 


270  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

No  creature  now  I  love,  but  God  alone. 
Oh,  to  be  clear,  clear,  clear,  of  all  but  Him  ! 
Lo,  here  I  strip  me  of  all  earthly  helps  — 

[Tearing  off  her  clothes. 

Naked  and  barefoot  through  the  world  to  follow 
My  naked  Lord  —  And  for  my  filthy  pelf  — 

Con.    Stop,  Madam  — 

Eliz.  Why  so,  sir  ? 

Con.  Upon  thine  oath  ! 

Thy  wealth  is  God's,  not  thine  —  How  darest  renounce 
The  trust  He  lays  on  thee  ?     I  do  command  thee, 
Being,  as  Aaron,  in  God's  stead,  to  keep  it 
Inviolate,  for  the  Church  and  thine  own  needs. 

Eliz.     Be  it  so —  1  have  no  part  nor  lot  in  't  — 
There  —  I  have  spoken. 

Abbess.     Oh,  noble  soul!  which  neither  gold,  nor  love, 
Nor  scorn  can  bend  ! 

Gerard.  And  think  what  pure  devotions, 

What  holy  prayers  must  they  have  been,  whose  guerdon 
Is  such  a  flood  of  grace  ! 

Nuns.  What  love  again  ! 

What  flame  of  charity,  which  thus  prevails 
In  virtue's  guest ! 

Eliz.  Is  self-contempt  learnt  thus  ? 

I  '11  home. 

Abbess.     And  yet  how  blest,  in  these  cool  shades 
To  rest  with  us,  as  in  a  land-locked  pool, 
Touched  last  and  lightest  by  the  ruffling  breeze. 

Eliz.     No!  no!  no!  no!  I  will  not  die  in  the  dark: 

• 

I  '11  breathe  the  free  fresh  air  until  the  last, 
Were  it  but  a  month  —  I  have  such  things  to  do  — 
Great  schemes  —  brave  schemes  —  and  such  a  little  time! 
Though  now  I  am  harnessed  light  as  any  foot-page. 
Come,  come,  my  ladies.  \Exciint  KLIZABETH,  etc. 


SCENE  I.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  2/1 

Ger.  Alas,  poor  lady  ! 

Con.  Why  alas,  my  son  ? 

She  longs  to  die  a  saint,  and  here  's  the  way  to  it. 

Ger.     Yet  why  so  harsh  ?  why  with  remorseless  knife 
Home  to  the  stem  prune  back  each  bough  and  bud? 
I  thought  the  task  of  education  was 
To  strengthen,  not  to  crush  ;  to  train  and  feed 
Each  subject  toward  fulfilment  of  its  nature, 
According  to  the  mind  of  God,  revealed 
In  laws,  congenital  with  every  kind 
And  character  of  man. 

Con.  A  heathen  dream  ! 

Young  souls  but  see  the  gay  and  warm  outside, 
And  work  but  in  the  shallow  upper  soil. 
Mine  deeper,  and  the  sour  and  barren  rock 
Will  stop  you  soon  enough.     Who  trains  God's  saints, 
He  must  transform,  not  pet  —  Nature's  corrupt  throughout  — 
A  gaudy  snake,  which  must  be  crushed,  not  tamed, 
A  cage  of  unclean  birds,  deceitful  ever ; 
Born  in  the  likeness  of  the  fiend,  which  Adam 
Did  at  the  Fall,  the  Scripture  saith,  put  on. 
Canst  thou  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a  hook, 
To  make  him  sport  for  thy  maidens  ?     Scripture  saith 
Who  is  the  prince  of  this  world  —  so  forget  not. 

Ger.     Forgive,  if  my  more  weak  and  carnal  judgment 
Be  startled  by  your  doctrines,  and  doubt  trembling 
The  path  whereon  you  force  yourself  and  her. 

Con.     Startled  ?     Belike  —  belike  —  let  doctrines  be  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  judged  by  thy  works ;  so  see  to  them, 
And  let  divines  split  hairs:  dare  all  thou  canst; 
Be  all  thou  clarest ;  —  that  will  keep  thy  brains  full. 
Have  thy  tools  ready,  God  will  find  thee  work  — 
Then  up,  and  play  the  man.     Fix  well  thy  purpose  — 
Let  one  idea,  like  an  orbed  sun, 


2/2  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

Rise  radiant  in  thine  heaven  ;  and  then  round  it 
All  doctrines,  forms,  and  disciplines  will  range 
As  dim  parhelia,  or  as  needful  clouds, 
Needful,  but  mist-begotten,  to  be  dashed 
Aside,  when  fresh  shall  serve  thy  purpose  better. 

Ger.     How?  dashed  aside? 

Con.  Yea,  dashed  aside  —  why  not? 

The  truths,  my  son,  are  safe  in  God's  abysses  — 
While  we  patch  up  the  doctrines  to  look  like  them. 
The  best  are  tarnished  mirrors  —  clumsy  bridges, 
Whereon,  as  on  firm  soil,  the  mob  may  walk 
Across  the  gulf  of  doubt,  and  know  no  clanger. 
We,  who  see  heaven,  may  see  the  hell  which  girds  it. 
Blind  trust  for  them.     When  I  came  here  from  Rome, 
Among  the  Alps,  all  through  one  frost-bound  dawn, 
Waiting  with  sealed  lips  the  noisy  day, 
I  walked  upon  a  marble  mead  of  snow  — 
An  angel's  spotless  plume,  laid  there  for  me  : 
Then  from  the  hillside,  in  the  melting  noon, 
Looked  down  the  gorge,  and  lo  !  no  bridge,  no  snow  — 
But  seas  of  writhing  glacier,  gashed  and  scored 
With  splintered  gulfs,  and  fathomless  crevasses, 
Blue  lips  of  hell,  which  sucked  clown  roaring  rivers 
The  fiends  who  fled  the  sun.     The  path  of  Saints 
Is  such ;  so  shall  she  look  from  heaven,  and  see 
The  road  which  led  her  thither.     Now  we  '11  go, 
And  find  some  lonely  cottage  for  her  lodging; 
Her  shelter  now  is  but  a  crumbling  ruin 
Roofed  in  with  pine  boughs  —  discipline  more  healthy 
For  soul,  than  body :     She  's  not  ripe  for  death. 

\Excunt. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2/3 


SCENE  II. 

Open  Space  in  a  Suburb  of  Marpurg,  near  ELIZABETH'S  Hut. 

COUNT  WALTER  and  COUNT  PAMA  of  Hungary  entering. 

C.  Pama.     I  have  prepared  my  nerves  for  a  shock. 

C.  Wai.  You  are  \vise,  for  the  world  's  upside  down  here. 
The  last  gateway  brought  us  out  of  Christendom  into  the 
New  Jerusalem,  the  fifth  Monarchy,  where  the  Saints  pos- 
sess the  earth.  Not  a  beggar  here  but  has  his  pockets  full 
of  fair  ladies'  tokens:  not  a  barefooted  friar  but  rules  a 
princess. 

C.  Pama.  Creeping,  I  opine,  into  widows'  houses,  and  for 
a  pretence  making  long  prayers. 

C.  Wai.  Don't  quote  Scripture  here,  sir,  especially  in 
that  gross  literal  way !  The  new  lights  here  have  taught  us 
that  Scripture's  saying  one  thing,  is  a  certain  proof  that  it 
means  another.  Except,  by  the  by,  in  one  text. 

C.  Pama.     What 's  that  ? 

C.  WaL     "  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you." 

C.  Pama.  Ah  !  So  we  are  to  take  nothing  literally,  that 
they  may  take  literally  everything  themselves  ? 

C.  Wai.  Humph  !  As  for  your  text,  see  if  they  do  not 
saddle  it  on  us  before  the  day  is  out,  as  glibly  as  ever  you 
laid  it  on  them.  Here  comes  the  lady's  tyrant,  of  whom  I 
told  you. 

CONRAD  advances  from  the  Hut. 
Con.     And  what  may  Count  Walter's  valor  want  here  ? 

[COUNT  WALTER  turns  his  back. 

C.  Pama.      I    come,   Sir   Priest,    from   Andreas,   king   re- 
nowned 
Of  Hungary,  ambassador  unworthy 


274  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

Unto  the  Landgravine,  his  saintly  daughter ; 
And  fain  would  be  directed  to  her  presence. 

Con.     That  is  as  I  shall  choose.     But  I  '11  not  stop  you. 
I  do  not  build  with  straw.     I  '11  trust  my  pupils 
To  worldlings'  honeyed  tongues,  who  make  long  prayers, 
And  enter  widows'  houses  for  pretence. 
There  dwells  the  lady,  who  has  chosen  too  long 
The  better  part,  to  have  it  taken  from  her. 
Besides  that  with  strange  dreams  and  revelations 
She  has  of  late  been  edified. 

C.  Wai.     Bah !  but  they  will  serve  your  turn  —  and  hers. 

Con.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

C.  Wai.  When  you  have  cut  her  off  from  child  and 
friend,  and  even  Isentrudis  and  Guta,  as  I  hear,  are  thrust 
out  by  you  to  starve,  and  she  sits  there,  shut  up  like  a  bear 
in  a  hole,  to  feed  on  her  own  substance ;  if  she  has  not  some 
of  these  visions  to  look  at,  how  is  she,  or  any  other  of  your 
poor  self-gorged  prisoners,  to  help  fancying  herself  the  only 
creature  on  earth. 

Con.  How  now?  Who  more  than  she,  in  faith  and  prac- 
tice, a  living  member  of  the  Communion  of  Saints?  Did  she 
not  lately  publicly  dispense  in  charity  in  a  single  clay  five 
hundred  marks  and  more?  Is  it  not  my  continual  labor  to 
keep  her  from  utter  penury  through  her  extravagance  in  alms- 
giving ?  For  whom  does  she  take  thought  but  for  the  poor, 
on  whom,  day  and  night,  she  spends  her  strength  ?  Does 
she  not  tend  them  from  the  cradle,  nurse  them,  kiss  their 
sores,  feed  them,  bathe  them,  with  her  own  hands,  clothe 
them,  living  and  dead,  with  garments,  the  produce  of  her 
own  labor?  Did  she  not  of  late  take  into  her  own  house  a 
paralytic  boy,  whose  loathesomeness  had  driven  away  every 
one  else  ?  And  now  that  we  have  removed  that  charge,  has 
she  not  with  her  a  leprous  boy,  to  whose  necessities  she  min- 
isters hourly,  by  day  and  night?  What  valley  but  blesses 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2/5 

her  for  some  school,  some  chapel,  some  convent,  built  by  her 
munificence  ?  Are  not  the  hospices,  which  she  has  founded 
in  divers  towns,  the  wonder  of  Germany  ?  —  wherein  she  daily 
feeds  and  houses  a  multitude  of  the  infirm  poor  of  Christ  ? 
Is  she  not  followed  at  every  step  by  the  blessings  of  the  poor  ? 
Are  not  her  hourly  intercessions  for  the  souls  and  bodies  of 
all  around  incessant,  world-famous,  mighty  to  save  ?  While 
she  lives  only  for  the  Church  of  Christ,  will  you  accuse  her 
of  selfish  isolation  ? 

C.  Wai.  I  tell  you,  monk,  if  she  were  not  healthier  by 
God's  making  than  ever  she  will  be  by  yours,  her  charity 
would  be  by  this  time  double-distilled  selfishness  ;  the  mouths 
she  fed,  cupboards  to  store  good  works  in  ;  the  backs  she 
warmed,  clothes-horses  to  hang  out  her  wares  before  God ; 
her  alms  not  given,  but  fairly  paid,  a  halfpenny  for  every 
halfpenny-worth  of  eternal  life  ;  earth  her  chess-board,  and 
the  men  and  women  on  it  merely  pawns  for  her  to  play  a 
winning  game  —  puppets  and  horn-books  to  teach  her  unit 
holiness  —  a  private  workshop  in  which  to  work  out  her  own 
salvation.  Out  upon  such  charity  ! 

Con.    God  hath  appointed  that  our  virtuous  deeds 
Each  merit  their  rewards. 

C.  Wai.  Go  to — go  to.  I  have  watched  you  and  your 
crew,  how  you  preach  up  selfish  ambition  for  divine  charity 
and  call  prurient  longings  celestial  love,  while  you  blaspheme 
that  very  marriage  from  whose  mysteries  you  borrow  all  your 
cant.  The  day  will  come  when  every  husband  and  father 
will  hunt  you  down  like  vermin ;  and  may  I  live  to  see  it. 

Con.    Out  on  thee,  heretic  ! 

C.  Wai.  (drawing).    Liar!     At  last  ? 

C.  Pama.  In  God's  name,  sir,  what  if  the  Princess 
find  us? 

C.  Wai.  Ay  —  for  her  sake.  But  put  that  name  on  me  again, 
as  you  do  on  every  good  Catholic  who  will  not  be  your  slave 


276  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

and  puppet,  and  if  thou  goest  home  with  ears  and  nose,  there 
is  no  hot  blood  in  Germany.     \They  move  towards  the  Cottage. 

Con.  (alone).    Were  I  as  once  I  was,  I  could  revenge : 
But  now  all  private  grudges  wane  like  mist 
In  the  keen  sunlight  of  my  full  intent ; 
And  this  man  counts  but  for  some  sullen  bull 
Who  paws  and  mutters  at  unheeding  pilgrims 
His  empty  wrath :  yet  let  him  bar  my  path, 
Or  stay  me  but  one  hour  in  my  life-purpose, 
And  I  will  fell  him  as  a  savage  beast, 
God's  foe,  not  mine.     Beware  thyself,  Sir  Count! 

\Exit.     The  Counts  return  from  the  Cottage. 

C.  Pama.    Shortly  she  will  return  ;  here  to  expect  her 
Is  duty  both,  and  honor.     Pardon  me  — 
Her   humors  are  well  known  here  ?     Passers  by 
Will  guess  who  't  is  we  visit  ? 

C.  Wai.  Very  likely. 

C.  Pama.    Well,    travellers    see    strange    things — and    do 

them  too. 

Hem  !  this  turf-smoke  affects  my  breath  :  we  might 
Draw  back  a  space. 

C.  Wai.  Gertie,  we  were  in  luck, 

Or  both  our  noses  would  have  been  snapped  off 
By  those  two  she-dragons ;  how  their  sainthoods  squealed 
To  see  a  brace  of  beards  peep  in  !     Poor  child  ! 
Two  sweet  companions  for  her  loneliness  ! 

C.  Pama.    But   ah!   what  lodging!  Tis  at  that  my  heart 

bleeds! 

That  hut,  whose  rough  and  smoke-embrowned  spars 
Dip  to  the  cold  clay  floor  on  either  side ! 
Her  seats  bare  deal !  —  her  only  furniture 
Some  earthen  crock  or  two !     Why,  sir,  a  dungeon 
Were  scarce  more  frightful :  such  a  choice  must  argue 
Aberrant  senses,  or  degenerate  blood ! 


SCENE  ii.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 


C.  WaL   What  ?     Were  things  foul  ? 

C.  Pama.  I  marked  not,  sir. 

C.  WaL  I  did. 

You  might  have  eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor. 

C.  Pama.    Off  any  spot,  sir,  which  a  princess'  foot 
Had  hallowed  by  its  touch. 

C.  WaL  Most  courtierly. 

Keep,  keep  those  sweet  saws  for  the  lady's  self. 
(Aside)  Unless  that  shock  of   the   nerves   shall   send   them 
flying. 

C.  Pama.   Yet  whence  this  depth  of  poverty  ?     I  thought 
You  and  her  champions  had  recovered  for  her 
Her  lands  and  titles. 

C.  WaL  Ay  ;  that  coward  Henry 

Gave  them  all  back  as  lightly  as  he  took  them  : 
Gertie,  we  were  four  gentle  applicants  — 
And  Rudolph  told  him  some  unwelcome  truths  — 
Would  God  that  all  of  us  might  hear  our  sins, 
As  Henry  heard  that  day  ! 

C.  Pama.  Then  she  refused  them  ? 

C.  WaL    "  It  ill  befits,"  quoth  she,  "  my  royal  blood, 
To  take  extorted  gifts  ;  I  tender  back 
By  you  to  him,  for  this  his  mortal  life, 
That  which  he  thinks  by  treason  cheaply  bought  ; 
To  which  my  son  shall,  in  his  father's  right, 
By  God's  good  will,  succeed.     For  that  dread  height 
May  Christ  by  many  woes  prepare  his  youth  !  " 

C.  Pama.    Humph  ! 

C.  WaL  Why  here  —  no,  't  cannot  be  — 

C.  Pama.  What  hither  comes 

Forth  from  the  hospital,  where,  as  they  told  us, 
The  Princess  labors  in  her  holy  duties? 
A  parti-colored  ghost  that  stalks  for  penance  ? 
Ah  !  a  good  head  of  hair,  if  she  had  kept  it 


2/8  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

A  thought  less  lank;  a  handsome  face  too,  trust  me, 
But  worn  to  fiddle-strings;  well,  we'll  be  knightly — 

[As  ELIZABETH  meets  him.] 
Stop,  my  fair  queen  of  rags  and  patches,  turn 
Those  solemn  eyes  a  moment  from  your  distaff, 
And  say,  what  tidings  your  magnificence 
Can  bring  us  of  the  Princess  ? 

Eliz.  I  am  she. 

[COUNT  PAMA  crosses  himself  and  falls  on  his  knees.] 

C.  Pama.    Oh,  blessed  saints  and  martyrs  !     Open,  earth  ! 
And  hide  my  recreant  knighthood  in  thy  gulf ! 
Yet,  mercy,  Madam  !  for  till  this  strange  day 
Whoe'er  saw  spinning  wool,  like  village-maid, 
A  royal  scion  ? 

C.  Wai.  (kneeling).    My  beloved  mistress  ! 

Eliz.    Ah  !  faithful  friend  !     Rise  gentles,  rise,  for  shame  ; 
Nay,  blush  not,  gallant  sir.     You  have  seen,  ere  now, 
Kings'  daughters  do  worse  things  than  spinning  wool, 
Yet  never  reddened.     Speak  your  errand  out. 

C.  Pama.    I  from  your  father,  Madam  — 

Eliz.  Oh  !  I  divine  ; 

And  grieve  that  you  so  far  have  journeyed,  sir, 
Upon  a  bootless  quest. 

C.  Pama.  But  hear  me,  Madam  — 

If  you  return  with  me  (o'erwhelming  honor ! 
For  such  mean  body-guard  too  precious  treasure) 
Your  father  offers  to  you  half  his  wealth ; 
And  countless  hosts,  whose  swift  and  loyal  blades 
From  traitorous  grasp  shall  vindicate  your  crown. 

Eliz.  Wealth  ?   I  have  proved  it,  and  have  tossed  it  from  me  : 
I  will  not  stoop  again  to  load  with  clay. 
War  ?     I  have  proved  that  too  :  should  I  turn  loose 
On  these  poor  sheep  the  wolf  whose  fangs  have  gored  me, 
God's  bolt  would  smite  me  dead. 


SCENE  IT.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  2?C) 

C.  Pama.    Madam,  by  his  gray  hairs  he  doth  entreat  you. 

Eliz.    Alas  !  small  comfort  would  they  find  in  me ! 
I  am  a  stricken  and  most  luckless  deer, 
\Yhose  bleeding  track  but  draws  the  hounds  of  wrath 
Where'er  I  pause  a  moment.     He  has  children 
Bred  at  his  side,  to  nurse  him  in  his  age  — 
While  I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  changeling, 
Whom,  ere  my  plastic  sense  could  impress  take 
Either  of  his  feature  or  his  voice,  he  lost. 

C.  Pama.    Is  it  so  ?     Then  pardon,  Madam,  but  your  father 
Must  by  a  father's  right  command  — 

Eliz.    Command!     Ay,   that's  the   phrase   of   the  world: 

well  —  tell  him, 

But  tell  him  gently  too  —  that  child  and  father 
Are  names,  whose  earthly  sense  I  have  foresworn, 
And  know  no  more :  I  have  a  heavenly  spouse, 
Whose  service  doth  all  other  claims  annul. 

C.  Wai.    Ah,  lady,  clearest  lady,  be  but  ruled ! 
Your  Saviour  will  be  there  as  near  as  here. 

Eliz.   What  ?     Thou  too,  friend  ?     Dost  thou  not  know  me 

better? 

Wouldst  have  me  leave  undone  what  I  begin  ? 
(To  COUNT  PAMA)  My  father  took  the  cross,  sir:  so  did  I : 
As  he  would  die  at  his  post,  so  will  I  die : 
He  is  a  warrior :   ask  him,  should  I  leave 
This  my  safe  fort,  and  well-proved  vantage-ground, 
To  roam  on  this  world's  flat  and  fenceless  steppes  ? 

C.  Pama.    Pardon  me,  Madam,  if  my  grosser  wit 
Fail  to  conceive  your  sense. 

Eliz.  It  is  not  needed. 

Be  but  the  mouthpiece  to  my  father,  sir; 
And  tell  him  —  for  I  would  not  anger  him  — 
Tell  him,  I  am  content  —  say,  happy — tell  him 
I  prove  my  kin  by  prayers  for  him,  and  masses 


2 SO  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

For  her  who  bore  me.     We  shall  meet  on  high. 
And  say,  his  daughter  is  a  mighty  tree, 
From  whose  wide  roots  a  thousand  sapling  suckers, 
Drink  half  their  life ;  she  dare  not  snap  the  threads, 
And  let  her  offshoots  wither.     So  farewell. 
Within  the  convent  there,  as  mine  own  guests, 
You  shall  be  fitly  lodged.     Come  here  no  more. 

C.  Wai.  C.  Pama.    Farewell,  sweet  Saint !  [Exeunt. 

Eliz.  May  God  go  with  you  both. 

No !  I  will  win  for  him  a  nobler  name, 
Than  captive  crescents,  piles  of  turbaned  heads, 
Or  towns  retaken  from  the  Tartar,  give. 
In  me  he  shall  be  greatest;  my  report 
Shall  through  the  ages  win  the  quires  of  heaven 
To  love  and  honor  him  ;  and  hinds,  who  bless 
The  poor  man's  patron  saint,  shall  not  forget 
How  she  was  fathered  with  a  worthy  sire.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 

Night.     Interior  of  ELIZABETH'S  Hut.     A  leprous  Boy  sleeping 

on  a  Mattress.     ELIZABETH  watching  by  him. 
Eliz.    My  shrunk  limbs,  stiff  from  many  a  blow, 

Are  crazed  with  pain. 

A  long  dim  formless  fog-bank,  creeping  low, 
Dulls  all  my  brain. 

I  remember  two  young  lovers, 

In  a  golden  gleam. 
Across  the  brooding  darkness  shrieking  hovers 

That  fair,  foul  dream. 

My  little  children  call  to  me, 

"  Mother !  so  soon  forgot  ?  " 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  28 1 

From  out  dark  nooks  their  yearning  faces  startle  me, 
Go,  babes !  I  know  you  not  J 

Pray  !  pray  !  or  thou  'It  go  mad. 

The  part 's  our  own  : 

No  fiend  can  take  that  from  us  !     Ah,  poor  boy ! 
Had  I,  like  thee,  been  bred  from  my  black  birth-hour 
In  filth  and  shame,  counting  the  soulless  months 
Only  by  some  fresh  ulcer  !     I  '11  be  patient  — 
Here  's  something  yet  more  wretched  than  myself. 
Sleep  thou  on  still,  poor  charge  —  though  I  '11  not  grudge 
One  moment  of  my  sickening  toil  about  thee, 
Best  counsellor — dumb  preacher,  who  dost  warn  me 
How  much  I  have  enjoyed,  how  much  have  left, 
Which  thou  hast  never  known.     How  am  I  wretched  ? 
The  happiness  thou  hast  from  me,  is  mine, 
And  makes  me  happy.     Ay,  there  lies  the  secret  — 
Could  we  but  crush  that  ever-craving  lust 
For  bliss,  which  kills  all  bliss,  and  lose  our  life, 
Our  barren  unit  life,  to  find  again 
A  thousand  lives  in  those  for  whom  we  die. 
So  were  we  men  and  women,  and  should  hold 
Our  rightful  rank  in  God's  great  universe, 
Wherein,  in  heaven  and  earth,  by  will  or  nature, 
Nought  lives  for  self  —  All,  all  —  from  crown  to  foot-stool  — 
The  Lamb,  before  the  world's  foundations  slain  — 
The  angels,  ministers  to  God's  elect: — 
The  sun,  who  only  shines  to  light  a  world  — 
The  clouds,  whose  glory  is  to  die  in  showers  — 
The  fleeting  streams,  \\ho  in  their  ocean-graves 
Flee  the  decay  of  stagnant  self-content  — 
The  oak,  ennobled  by  the  shipwright's  axe  — 
The  soil,  which  yields  its  marrow  to  the  flower  — 


282  77/7:   SALVT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

The  flower,  which  feeds  a  thousand  velvet  worms, 
Born  only  to  be  prey  for  every  bird  — 
All  spend  themselves  for  others  :  and  shall  man, 
Earth's  rosy  blossom  —  image  of  his  God  — 
Whose  twofold  being  is  the  mystic  knot 
Which  couples  earth  and  heaven  —  doubly  bound 
As  being  both  worm  and  angel,  to  that  service 
By  which  both  worms  and  angels  hold  their  life  — 
Shall  he,  whose  every  breath  is  debt  on  debt, 
Refuse,  without  some  hope  of  further  wage 
Which  he  calls  Heaven,  to  be  what  God  has  made  him? 
No  !  let  him  show  himself  the  creature's  lord 
By  freewill  gift  of  that  self-sacrifice 
Which  they  perforce  by  nature's  law  must  suffer. 
This  too  I  had  to  learn  (I  thank  thee,  Lord  !), 
To  lie  crushed  down  in  darkness  and  the  pit  — 
To  lose  all  heart  and  hope  —  and  yet  to  work. 
What  lesson  could  I  draw  from  all  my  own  woes  — 
Ingratitude,  oppression,  widowhood  — 
While  I  could  hug  myself  in  vain  conceits 
Of  self-contented  sainthood  —  inward  raptures  — 
Celestial  palms — and  let  ambition's  gorge 
Taint  heaven,  as  well  as  earth  ?     Is  selfishness 
For  time,  a  sin  —  spun  out  to  eternity 
Celestial  prudence  ?     Shame  !     Oh,  thrust  me  forth, 
Forth,  Lord,  from  self,  until  I  toil  and  die 
No  more  for  Heaven  and  bliss,  but  duty,  Lord, 
Duty  to  Thee,  although  my  meed  should  be 
The  hell  which  I  deserve  !  {Sleeps. 

•  •  .  •  • 

Two  Women  enter, 
is t  Woman.   What!   snoring  still?     'Tis   nearly  time   to 

wake  her 
To  do  her  penance. 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  283 

2d  Woman.  Wait  a  while,  for  love  : 

Indeed,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  punish 
A  bag  of  skin  and  bones. 

\st  Woman.  Tis  for  her  good  : 

She  has  had  her  share  of  pleasure  in  this  life 
With  her  gay  husband  ;  she  must  have  her  pain. 
We  bear  it  as  a  thing  of  course ;  we  know 
What  mortifications  are,  although  I  say  it 
That  should  not. 

id  Woman.         Why,  since  my  old  tyrant  died, 
Fasting  I  've  sought  the  Lord,  like  any  Anna, 
And  never  tasted  fish,  nor  flesh,  nor  fowl, 
And  little  stronger  than  water. 

\st  Woman.  Plague  on  this  watching ! 

What  work,  to  make  a  saint  of  a  fine  lady ! 
See  now,  if  she  had  been  some  laborer's  daughter, 
She  might  have  saved  herself,  for  aught  he  cared ; 
But  now  — 

2tt  Woman.   Hush  !  here  the  master  comes  : 
I  hear  him. — 

CONRAD  enters. 

Con.    My  peace,  most  holy,  wise,  and  watchful  wardens ! 
She  sleeps  ?     Well,  what  complaints  have  you  to  bring 
Since  last  we  met?     How?  blowing  up  the  fire? 
Cold  is  the  true  saint's  element  —  he  thrives 
Like  Alpine  gentians,  where  the  frost  is  keenest  — 
For  there  Heaven  's  nearest  — and  the  ether  purest  — 
(Aside)    And  he  most  bitter. 

zd  Woman.  Ah  !  sweet  masterj 

WTe  are  not  yet  as  perfect  as  yourself. 

Con.    But  how  has  she  behaved  ? 

\st  Woman.  Just  like  herself  — 

Now  rufBing  up  like  any  tourney  queen ; 


284  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

Now  weeping  in  dark  corners  ;  then  next  minute 
Begging  for  penance  on  her  knees. 

2d  Woman.  One  trick  's  cured ; 

That  lust  of  giving ;   Isentrude  and  Guta, 
The  hussies,  came  here  begging  but  yestreen, 
Vowed  they  were  starving. 

Con.  Did  she  give  to  them  ? 

id  Woman.    She  told  them  that  she  dared  not. 

Con.  Good.     For  them, 

I  will  take  measures  that  they  shall  not  want : 
But  see  you  tell  her  not :  she  must  be  perfect. 

\st  Woman.    Indeed,  there  's  not  much  chance  of  that  a 

while. 

There  's  others,  might  be  saints,  if  they  were  young, 
And  handsome,  and  had  titles  to  their  names, 
If  they  were  helped  toward  heaven,  now  — 

Con.  Silence,  horse-skull ! 

Thank  God,  that  you  are  allowed  to  use  a  finger 
Towards  building  up  His  chosen  tabernacle. 

zd  Woman.    I  consider  that  she  blasphemes  the  means  of 
grace. 

Con.    Eh  ?  that 's  a  point,  indeed. 

2d  Woman.  Why,  yesterday, 

Within  the  church,  before  a  mighty  crowd, 
She  mocked  at  all  the  lovely  images, 
And  said  "  the  money  had  been  better  spent 
On  food  and  clothes,  instead  of  paint  and  gilding : 
They  were  but  pictures,  whose  reality 
We  ought  to  bear  within  us." 

Con.  Awful  doctrine ! 

ist  Woman.    Look  at  her  carelessness,  again  —  the  distaff 
Or  woolcomb  in  her  hands,  even  on  her  bed. 
Then,  when  the  work  is  done,  she  lets  those  nuns 
Cheat  her  of  half  the  price. 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  285 

2d  Woman.  The  Aldenburgers. 

Con.   Well,  well,  what  more  misdoings  ? 

(aside)  Pah  !  I  am  sick  on  't. 
(aloud)  Go  sit,  and  pray  by  her  until  she  wakes. 

The  Women  retire.     CONRAD  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
I  am  dwindling  to  a  peddling  chamber-chaplain, 
Who  hunts  for  crabs  and  ballads  in  maids'  sleeves, 
I,  who  have  shuffled  kingdoms.     Oh  !  't  is  easy 
To  beget  great  deeds ;  but  in  the  rearing  of  them  — 
The  threading  in  cold  blood  each  mean  detail, 
And  furzebrake  of  half-pertinent  circumstance  — 
There  lies  the  self-denial. 

IVome/i  (i/i  a  low  voice).    Master!  sir!  look  here! 

Eliz.  (rising).    Have  mercy,  mercy,  Lord  ! 

Con.    What  is  it,  my  daughter  ?     No  —  she  answers  not  — 
Her  eyeballs  through  their  sealed  lids  are  bursting, 
And  yet  she  sleeps:  her  body  does  but  mimic 
The  absent  soul's  enfranchised  wanderings 
In  the  spirit-world. 

Eliz.  Oh  !  she  was  but  a  worldling! 

And  think,  good  Lord,  if  that  this  world  is  hell, 
What  wonder  if  poor  souls  whose  lot  is  fixed  here, 
Meshed  down  by  custom,  wealth,  rank,  pleasure,  ignorance, 
Do  hellish  things  in  it  ?     Have  mercy,  Lord  ; 
Even  for  my  sake,  and  all  my  woes,  have  mercy ! 

Con.   There  !  she  is  laid  again  —  Some  bedlam  dream. 
So  —  here  I  sit;  am  I  a  guardian  angel 
Watching  by  God's  elect  ?  or  nightly  tiger, 
Who  waits  upon  a  dainty  point  of  honor 
To  clutch  his  prey,  till  it  shall  wake  and  move  ? 
We  '11  waive  that  question  :  there  's  eternity 
To  answer  that  in. 

How  like  a  marble-carven  nun  she  lies 
Who  prays  with  folded  palms  upon  her  tomb, 


286  7777f  SAWFS  TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

Until  the  resurrection  !     Fair  and  holy  ! 

Oh,  happy  Lewis!     Had  I  been  a  knight  — 

A  man  at  all  —  What 's  this  ?     I  must  be  brutal, 

Or  I  shall  love  her :  and  yet  that 's  no  safeguard ; 

I  have  marked  it  oft :  ay  —  with  that  devilish  triumph 

Which  eyes  its  victim's  writhings,  still  will  mingle 

A  sympathetic  thrill  of  lust  —  say,  pity. 

Eliz.  (awaking}.     I  am  heard!     She  is  saved! 
Where  am  I  ?     What !  have  I  overslept  myself? 
Oh,  do  not  beat  me  !     I  will  tell  you  all  — 
I  have  had  awful  dreams  of  the  other  world. 

i st  Woman.    Ay  !  ay  !  a  fine  excuse  for  lazy  women, 
Who  cry  nightmare  with  lying  on  their  backs. 

Eliz.    I  will  be  heard  !     I  am  a  prophetess ! 
God  hears  me,  why  not  ye  ? 

Con.  Quench  not  the  spirit : 

If  He  have  spoken,  daughter,  we  must  listen. 

Eliz.    Methought  from  out  the  red  and  heaving  earth 
My  mother  rose,  whose  broad  and  queenly  limbs 
A  fiery  arrow  did  impale,  and  round 
Pursuing  tongues  oozed  up  of  nether  fire, 
And  fastened  on  her  :  like  a  winter-blast 
Among  the  steeples,  then  she  shrieked  aloud, 
"  Pray  for  me,  daughter;  save  me  from  this  torment, 
For  thou  canst  save !  "     And  then  she  told  a  tale  ; 
It  was  not  true  —  my  mother  was  not  such  — 
Oh,  God  !     The  pander  to  a  brother's  sin  ! 

\st  Woman.    There  now?     The  truth  is  out!     I  told  you, 

sister, 
About  that  mother  — 

Con.  Silence,  hags  !  what  then  ? 

Eliz.    She  stretched  her  arms,  and  sank.     Was  it  a  sin 
To  love  that  sinful  mother  ?     There  I  lay  — 
And  in  the  spirit  far  away  I  prayed ; 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  287 

What  words  I  spoke,  I  know  not,  nor  how  long; 

Until  a  small  still  voice  sighed,  "  Child,  thou  art  heard : '" 

Then  on  the  pitchy  dark  a  small  bright  cloud 

Shone  out,  and  swelled,  and  neared,  and  grew. to  form, 

Till  from  it  blazed  my  pardoned  mother's  face 

With  nameless  glory  !     Nearer  still  she  pressed, 

And  bent  her  lips  to  mine  —  a  mighty  spasm 

Ran  crackling  through  my  limbs,  and  thousand  bells 

Rang  in  my  dizzy  ears  —  And  so  I  woke. 

Con.   T  'was  but  a  dream. 

Eliz.  'T  was  more  !  't  was  more  !  I  Ve  tests  : 

From  youth  I  have  lived  in  two  alternate  worlds, 
And  night  is  live  like  day.     This  was  no  goblin ! 
'T  was  a  true  vision,  and  my  mother's  soul 
Is  freed  by  my  poor  prayers  from  penal  fires, 
And  waits  for  me  in  bliss. 

Con.  Well  —  be  it  so  then. 

Thou  seest  herein  what  prize  obedience  merits. 
Now  to  press  forwards  :  I  require  your  presence 
Within  the  square,  at  noon,  to  witness  there 
The  fiery  doom  —  most  just  and  righteous  doom- 
ed two  convicted  and  malignant  heretics, 
Who  at  the  stake  shall  expiate  their  crime, 
And  pacify  God's  wrath  against  this  land. 

Eliz.    No  !  no  !     I  will  not  go  ! 

Con.  What 's  here  ?     Thou  wilt  not  ? 

I  '11  drive  thee  there  with  blows. 

Eliz.  Then  I  will  bear  them, 

Even  as  I  bore  the  last,  with  thankful  thoughts 
Upon  those  stripes  my  Lord  endured  for  me. 
Oh,  spare  them,  sir  !  poor  blindfold  sons  of  men ! 
No  saint  but  daily  errs,  —  and  must  they  burn, 
Ah,  God  !  for  an  opinion  ? 

Con.  Fool !  opinions  ? 


288  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

Who  cares  for  their  opinions  ?     T  is  rebellion 
Against  the  system  which  upholds  the  world 
For  which  they  die :  so,  lest  the  infection  spread, 
We  must  cut  off  the  members,  whose  disease 
We  \1  pardon,  could  they  keep  it  to  themselves. 

[ELIZABETH  weeps. 

Well,  I  '11  not  urge  it,  —  Thou  hast  other  work  — 
But  for  thy  petulant  words  do  thou  this  penance : 
I  do  forbid  thee  here,  to  give  henceforth 
Food,  coin,  or  clothes,  to  any  living  soul. 
Thy  thriftless  waste  cloth  scandalize  the  elect, 
And  maim  thine  usefulness  :  thou  dost  elude 
My  wise  restrictions  still  :  'T  is  great,  to  live 
Poor,  among  riches ;  when  thy  wealth  is  spent, 
Want  is  not  merit,  but  necessity. 

Eliz.  Oh,  let  me  give  ! 

That  only  pleasure  have  I  left  on  earth! 

Con.    And  for  that  very  cause  thou  must  forego  it, 
And  so  be  perfect.     She  \vho  Jives  in  pleasure 
Is  dead,  while  yet  she  lives;  grace  brings  no  merit 
When  'tis  the  express  of  our  own  self-will. 
To  shrink  from  what  we  practise ;  do  God's  work 
In  spite  of  loathings ;  that 's  the  path  of  saints. 
I  have  said.  [Exit  with  the  Women. 

Eliz.    Well !  I  am  freezing  fast —  I  have  grown  of  late 
Too  weak  to  nurse  my  sick  ;  and  now  this  outlet, 
This  one  last  thawing  spring  of  fellow-feeling, 
Is  choked  with  ice  —  Come,  Lord,  and  set  me  free. 
Think  me  not  hasty !  measure  not  mine  age, 
Oh,  Lord,  by  these  my  four-and-twenty  winters. 
I  have  lived  three  lives  —  three  lives. 
For  fourteen  years  I  was  an  idiot  girl : 
Then  I  was  born  again  ;  and  for  five  years, 
I  lived !  I  lived  !  and  then  I  died  once  more ;  — 


SCENE  IV.  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  289 

One  day  when  many  knights  came  marching  by, 
And  stole  away  —  we  '11  talk  no  more  of  that 
And  so  these  four  years  since,  I  have  been  dead, 
And  all  my  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God. 
Nunc  igitur  dimittas,  Domine,  servam  tuam. 

SCENE  IV. 

The  same.     ELIZABETH  lying  on  Straw  in  a  corner.      A  crowd 
of  Women  round  her.     CONRAD  entering. 

Con.    As  I  expected  — 

A  sermon-mongering  herd  about  her  death-bed, 
Stirling  her  with  fusty  sighs,  as  flocks  of  rooks 
Despatch,  with  pious  pecks,  a  wounded  brother. 
Cant,  howl,  and  whimper !     Not  an  old  fool  in  the  town 
Who  thinks  herself  religious,  but  must  see 
The  last  of  the  show  and  mob  the  deer  to  death. 
(Advancing)    Hr.il!  holy  ones  !  How  fares  your  charge  to-day? 

Abbess.    After  the  blessed  sacrament  received, 
As  surfeited  with  those  celestial  viands, 
And  with  the  blood  of  life  intoxicate, 
She  lay  entranced  :  and  only  stirred  at  times 
To  eructate  sweet  edifying  doctrine 
Culled  from  your  darling  sermons. 

Woman.  Heavenly  grace 

Imbues  her  so  throughout,  that  even  when  pricked 
She  feels  no  pain. 

Con.  A  miracle,  no  doubt. 

Heaven's  work  is  ripe,  and  like  some  more  I  know, 
Having  begun  in  the  spirit,  in  the  flesh 
She 's  now  made  perfect :  she  hath  had  warnings,  too, 
Of  her  decease ;  and  prophesied  to  me, 
Three  weeks  ago,  when  I  lay  like  to  die, 
That  I  should  see  her  in  her  coffin  yet. 


290  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 


Abbess.    'Tis  said,  she  heard  in  dreams  her  Saviour  call  her 
To  mansions  built  for  her  from  everlasting. 

Con.    Ay,  so  she  said. 

Abbess.  But  tell  me,  in  her  confession 

Was  there  no  holy  shame  —  no  self-abhorrence 
For  the  vile  pleasures  of  her  carnal  wedlock  ? 

Con.    She  said  no  word  thereon :  as  for  her  shrift, 
No  Chrisom  child  could  show  a  chart  of  thoughts 
More  spotless  than  were  hers. 

Nun.  Strange,  she  said  nought ; 

I  had  hoped  she  had  grown  more  pure. 

Con.  When,  next,  I  asked  her, 

How  she  would  be  interred ;  "  In  the  vilest  weeds," 
Quoth  she,  "  my  poor  hut  holds ;  I  will  not  pamper 
When  dead,  that  flesh,  which  living  I  despised. 
And  for  my  wealth,  see  it  to  the  last  doit 
Bestowed  upon  the  poor  of  Christ." 

2d  Woman.  Oh  grace  ! 

$d  Woman.    Oh  soul  to  this  world  poor,  but  rich  toward 
God! 

Eliz.  (awaking}.    Hark  !  how  they  cry  for  bread  ! 
Poor  souls  !  be  patient  ! 
I  have  spent  all  — 

I  '11  sell  myself  for  a  slave  — feed  them  with  the  price. 
Come  Guta  !  Nurse  !     We  must  be  up  and  doing  ! 
Alas  !  they  are  gone,  and  begging  ! 
Go  !  go !     They  '11  beat  me,  if  I  give  you  aught : 
I  '11  pray  for  you,  and  so  you  '11  go  to  Heaven. 
I  am  a  saint  —  God  giants  me  all  I  ask. 
But  I  must  love  no  creature.     Why,  Christ  loved  — 
Mary  He4oved,  and  Martha,  and  their  brother  — 
Three  friends !  and  I  have  none ! 
When  Lazaras  lay  dead,  He  groaned  in  spirit, 
And  wept  —  like  any  widow  —  Jesus  wept! 


SCENE  IV.  THE  SAIXT'S  TRAGEDY.  29 1 

I  '11  weep,  weep,  weep !  pray  for  that  "  gift  of  tears." 
They  took  my  friends  away,  but  not  my  eyes, 
Oh,  husband,  babes,  friends,  nurse  !     To  die  alone  ! 
Crack,  frozen  brain  !     Melt,  icicle  within  ! 

Women.    Alas  !  sweet  saint !  By  bitter  pangs  she  wins 
Her  crown  of  endless  glory  ! 

Con.  But  she  wins  it ! 

Stop  that  vile  sobbing  ;  she  's  unmanned  enough 
Without  your  maudlin  sympathy. 

Eliz.  What  ?  weeping  ? 

Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me  — 
Weep  for  yourselves. 

Women.  We  do,  alas  !  we  do  ! 

What  are  we  without  you  ?  \A pause. 

Woman.  Oh,  listen,  listen  ! 

What  sweet  sounds  from  her  fast-closed  lips  are  welling, 
As  from  the  caverned  shaft,  deep  miners'  songs  ? 
Eliz.  (in  a  low  voice).    Through  the  stifling  room  • 
Floats  strange  perfume  ; 
Through  the  crumbling  thatch 
The  angels  watch, 
Over  the  rotting  roof-tree. 
They  warble,  and  flutter,  and  hover  and  glide, 
Wafting  old  sounds  to  my  dreary  bedside, 
Snatches  of  songs  which  I  used  to  know 
When  I  slept  by  my  nurse,  and  the  swallows 
Called  me  at  day-dawn  from  under  the  eaves. 

Hark  to  them  !     Hark  to  them  now  — 
Fluting  like  woodlarks,  tender  and  low  — 
Cool  rustling  leaves  —  tinkling  waters  — 
Sheepbells  over  the  lea  — 
In  their  silver  plumes  Eden-gales  whisper  — 
In  their  hands  Kden-lilies  —  not  for  me  —  not  for  me  — 
No  crown  for  the  poor  fond  bride ! 


2Q2  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  iv. 

The  song  told  me  so, 

Long,  long  ago, 
How  the  maid  chose  the  white  lily ; 

But  the  bride  she  chose 

The  red  red  rose, 
And  by  its  thorn  died  she. 
Well  —  in  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions  — 

I  have  trodden  the  waste  howling  ocean-foam, 

Till  I  stand  upon  Canaan's  shore, 
Where  Crusaders  from  Zion's  towers  call  me  home, 

To  the  saints  who  are  gone  before. 

Con.  Still  on  Crusaders  ?     [Aside. 

Abbess.    What  was  that  sweet  song,    which  just  now,   my 

Princess, 
You  murmured  to  yourself  ? 

Eliz.  •  Did  you  not  hear 

A  little  bird  between  me  and  the  wall, 
That  sang  and  sang  ? 

Abbess.  We  heard  him  not,  fair  Saint. 

Eliz.    I  heard  him,  and  his  merry  carol  revelled 
Through  all  my  brain,  and  woke  my  parched  throat 
To  join  his  song :  then  angel  melodies 
Burst  through  the  dull  dark,  and  the  mad  air  quivered 
Unutterable  music.     Nay,  you  heard  him. 

Abbess.    Nought  save  yourself. 

Eliz.    Slow  hours  !     Was  that  the  cock-crow  ? 
Woman.    St.  Peter's  bird  did  call. 

Eliz.  Then  I  must  up  — 

To  matins,  and  to  work  —  No,  my  work  's  over. 
And  what  is  it,  what  ? 

One  drop  of  oil  on  the  salt  seething  ocean  ! 
Thank  God,  that  one  was  bom  at  this  same  hour, 


SCENE  IV.  7 7 /A'  SA/A'7"S   TRAGEDY.  293 

Who  did  our  work  for  us :  we  '11  talk  of  Him  : 

We  shall  go  mad  with  thinking  of  ourselves  — 

We  '11  talk  of  Him,  and  of  that  new-made  star. 

Which,  as  He  stooped  into  the  Virgin's  side, 

From  off  His  finger,  like  a  signet-gem, 

He  dropped  in  the  empyrean  for  a  sign. 

But  the  first  tear  He  shed  at  this  His  birth-hour, 

When  He  crept  weeping  forth  to  see  our  woe, 

Fled  up  to  Heaven  in  mist,  and  hid  for  ever 

Our  sins,  our  works,  and  that  same  new-made  star. 

Woman,    Poor  soul !   she  wanders  ! 

Con.  Wanders,  fool  ?  her  madness 

Is  worth  a  million  of  your  paters,  mumbled 
At  every  station  between  — 

Eliz.  Oh  !   thank  God 

Our  eyes  are  dim !  What  should  we  do,  if  he, 
The  sneering  fiend,  who  laughs  at  all  our  toil, 
Should  meet  us  face  to  face  ? 

Con.  We  'd  call  him  fool. 

Eliz.   There  !  There  !  Fly,  Satan,  fly  !     Tis  gone  ! 

Con.    The  victory  's  gained  at  last ! 
The  fiend  is  baffled,  and  her  saintship  sure ! 
Oh,  people  blest  of  Heaven  ! 

Eliz.  Oh,  master,  master 

You  will  not  let  the  mob,  when  I  lie  dead, 
Make  me  a  show  —  paw  over  all  my  limbs  — 
Pull  out  my  hair  —  pluck  off  my  finger-nails  — 
Wear  scraps  of  me  for  charms  and  amulets, 
As  if  I  were  a  mummy,  or  a  drug? 
As  they  have  done  to  others  —  I  have  seen  it — 
Nor  set  me  up  in  ugly  naked  pictures 
In  every  church,  that  cold  world-hardened  wits 
May  gossip  o'er  my  secret  tortures?     Promise  — 
Swear  to  me  !   I  demand  it  1 


294  THF<   SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

Con.  No  man  lights 

A  candle,  to  be  hid  beneath  a  bushel : 
Thy  virtues  are  the  Church's  dower :  endure 
All  which  the  edification  of  the  faithful 
Makes  needful  to  be  published. 

Eliz.  Oh,  my  God ! 

I  had  stripped  myself  of  all,  but  modesty! 
Dost  Thou  claim  yet  that  victim  ?     Be  it  so. 
Now  take  me  home  !     I  have  no  more  to  give  Thee ! 
So  weak  —  and  yet  no  pain  —  why,  now  nought  ails  me! 
How  dim  the  lights  burn  !     Here  — 
Where  are  you,  children  ? 
Alas  !  I  had  forgotten. 

Now  I  must  sleep  —  for  ere  the  sun  shall  rise, 
I  must  begone  upon  a  long,  long  journey 
To  him  I  love. 

Con.  She  means  her  heavenly  Bridegroom  — 

The  Spouse  of  souls. 

Eliz.  I  said,  to  him  I  love. 

Let  me  sleep,  sleep. 
You  will  not  need  to  wake  me  —  so — good-night. 

o  o 

[Folds  herself  into  an  attitude  of  repose.     The  scene  closes. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  I.     A.  D.  1235. 

A  Convent  at  Marpurg.     Cloisters  of  the  Infirmary.     Two  aged 

Monks  sitting. 

\st  Monk.  So  they  will  publish  to-day  the  Landgravine's 
canonization,  and  translate  her  to  the  new  church  prepared 
for  her.  Alack,  now,  that  all  the  world  should  be  out  sight- 


SCENE  r.  THE  SAINTS    TRACK  I)  Y.  2C)$ 

seeing  and  saint-making,  and  we  laid  up  here,  like  two  lame 
jackdaws  in  a  belfry! 

2 it  Monk.  Let  be,  man  —  let  be.  We  have  seen  sights  and 
saints  in  our  time.  And,  truly,  this  insolatio  suits  my  old 
bones  better  than  processioning. 

i st  Monk.  'T  is  pleasant  enough  in  the  sun,  were  it  not  for 
the  flies.  Look — there's  a  lizard.  Come  you  here,  little 
run-about ;  here  's  game  for  you. 

?.d  Monk.  A  tame  fool,  and  a  gay  one  —  Munditiae  mun- 
danis. 

\st  Monk.    Catch  him  a  fat  fly  —  my  hand  shaketh. 

2(1  Monk.  If  one  of  your  new-lights  were  here,  now,  he'd 
pluck  him  for  a  fiend,  as  Dominic  did  the  live  sparrow  in 
chapel. 

ist  Monk.  There  will  be  precious  offerings  made  to-day,  of 
which  our  house  will  get  its  share. 

2 d Monk.  Not  we;  she  always  favored  the  Franciscans 
most. 

\st  Monk.  'T  was  but  fair — they  were  her  kith  and  kin. 
She  lately  put  on  the  habit  of  their  third  minors. 

2 d  Monk.  So  have  half  the  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  in 
Europe.  There 's  one  of  your  new  inventions,  now,  for 
letting  grand  folks  serve  God  and  mammon  at  once,  and 
emptying  honest  monasteries,  where  men  give  up  all  for  the 
Gospel's  sake.  And  now  these  Pharisees  of  Franciscans  will 
go  off  with  full  pockets  — 

\st  Monk.    While  we  poor  publicans  — 

zd  Monk.    Shall  not  come  home  all  of  us  justified,  I  think. 

i  st  Monk.    How?     Is  there  scandal  among  us? 

2//  Monk.  Ask  not  —  ask  not.  Even  a  fool,  when  he  holds 
his  peace,  is  counted  wise.  Of  all  sins,  avoid  that  same 
gossiping. 

ist  Monk.  Nay,  tell  me  now.  Are  we  not  like  David  and 
Jonathan  ?  Have  we  not  worked  together,  prayed  together, 


296  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  V. 

journeyed  together,  and  been  soundly  flogged  together,  more 
by  token,  any  time  this  forty  years  ?  And  now  is  news  so 
plenty,  that  thou  darest  to  defraud  me  of  a  morsel  ? 

2d  Mink.  I'll  tell  thee  —  but  be  secret.  I  knew  a  man 
hard  by  the  convent  (names  are  dangerous,  and  a  bird  of  the 
air  shall  carry  the  matter),  one  that  hath  a  mighty  eye  for  a 
heretic,  if  thou  knowest  him. 

\st  Monk.  Who  carries  his  poll  screwed  on  overtight,  and 
sits  with  his  eyes  shut  in  chapel  ? 

2d  Monk.  The  same.  Such  a  one  to  be  in  evil  savor  — 
to  have  the  splendor  of  the  pontifical  countenance  turned 
from  him,  as  through  he  had  taken  Christians  for  Amalekites, 
and  slain  the  people  of  the  Lord. 

ist  Monk.    How  now  ? 

•id Monk.  I  only  speak  as  I  hear:  for  my  sister's  son  is 
chaplain,  for  the  time  being,  to  a  certain  Archisacerdos,  a 
foreigner,  now  lodging  where  thou  knowest.  The  young  man 
being  hid,  after  some  knavery,  behind  the  arras,  in.  come  our 
quidam  and  that  prelate.  The  quidam,  surly  and  Saxon  — 
the  guest,  smooth  and  Italian  ;  his  words  softer  than  butter, 
yet  very  swords :  that  this  quidam  had  "  exceeded  the  bounds 
of  his  commission — launched  out  into  wanton  and  lawless 
cruelty  —  burnt  noble  ladies  unheard,  of  whose  innocence  the 
Holy  See  had  proof  —  defiled  the  Catholic  faith  in  the  eyes 
of  the  weaker  sort  —  and  alienated  the  minds  of  many  nobles 
and  gentlemen "  —  and  finally,  that  he  who  thinketh  he 
standeth,  were  wise  to  take  heed  lest  he  fall. 

i st  Monk.    And  what  said  Conrad  ? 

2.d  Monk.  Out  upon  a  man  that  cannot  keep  his  lips  !  Who 
spake  of  Conrad  ?  That  quidam,  however,  answered  nought, 
but  —  how  "to  his  own  master  he  stood  or  fell"  —  how  "he 
labored  not  for  the  Pope  but  for  the  Papacy;"  and  so  forth. 

\st  Monk.  Here  is  awful  doctrine !  Behold  the  fruit  of 
your  reformers !  This  comes  of  their  realized  ideas,  and  cen- 


SCENE  i.  77//i  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 


tralizations,  and  organizations,  till  a  monk  cannot  wink  in 
chapel  without  being  blinded  with  the  lantern,  or  fall  sick  on 
Fridays,  for  fear  of  the  rod.  Have  I  not  testified  ?  Have  I 
not  foretold  ? 

2.d  Monk.  Thou  hast  indeed.  Thou  knowest  that  the  old 
paths  are  best,  and  livest  in  most  pious  abhorrence  of  all 
amendment. 

\stMonk.  Do  you  hear  that  shout  ?  There  is  the  procession 
returning  from  the  tomb. 

2d  Monk.  Hark  to  the  tramp  of  the  horse-hoofs  !  A  gal- 
lant show,  I  '11  warrant  ! 

\st  Monk.  Time  was,  now,  when  we  were  young  bloods 
together  in  the  world,  such  a  roll  as  that  would  have  set  our 
hearts  beating  against  their  cages! 

2d  Monk.  Ay,  ay.  We  have  seen  sport  in  our  day  ;  we 
have  paraded  and  curvetted,  eh  ?  and  heard  scabbards  jingle  ? 
We  know  the  sly  touch  of  the  heel,  that  set  him  on  his  hind 
legs  before  the  right  window.  Vanitas  vanitatum  —  omnia 
vanitas  !  Here  comes  Gerard,  Conrad's  chaplain,  with  our 
dinner. 

GERARD  enters  across  the  Court. 

\st  Monk.  A  kindly  youth  and  a  godly,  but  —  reformation- 
bitten,  like  the  rest. 

2d  Monk.  Never  care.  Boys  must  take  the  reigning  mad- 
ness in  religion,  as  they  do  the  measles  —  once  for  all. 

\st  Monk.  Once  too  often  for  him.  His  face  is  too,  too  like 
Abel's  in  the  chapel-window.  Ut  sis  vitalis  metuo,  puer  ! 

Ger.  Hail,  father^.  I  have  asked  permission  of  the  prior 
to  minister  your  refection,  and  bring  you  thereby  the  first 
news  of  the  pageant. 

ist  Monk.  Blessings  on  thee  for  a  good  boy.  Give  us  the 
trenchers,  and  open  thy  mouth  while  we  open  ours. 

2d  Monk.    Most  splendid  all,  no  doubt  ? 

Ger.  A  garden,  sir, 


298  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

Wherein  all  rainbpwed  flowers  were  heaped  together; 
A  sea  of  silk  and  gold,  of  blazoned  banners, 
And  chargers  housed ;  such  glorious  press,  be  sure, 
Thuringen-land  ne'er  saw. 

id  Monk.  Just  hear  the  boy  ! 

Who  rode  beside  the  bier  ? 

Ger.  Frederic  the  Kaiser, 

Henry  the  Landgrave,  brother  of  her  husband ; 
The  Princesses,  too,  Agnes,  and  her  mother ; 
And  every  noble  name,  sir,  at  whose  war-cry 
The  Saxon  heart  leaps  up  ;  with  them  the  prelates 
Of  Treves,  of  Coin,  and  Maintz  — why  name  them  all  ? 
When  all  were  there,  whom  this  our  fatherland 
Counts  worthy  of  its  love. 

\stMonk.  'T  was  but  her  right. 

Who  spoke  the  oration  ? 

Ger.  Who  but  Conrad? 

2d  Monk.  Well  — 

That 's  honor  to  our  house. 

u/  Monk.  Come,  tell  us  all. 

2 d Monk.    In  order,  boy:  thou  hast  a  ready  tongue. 

Ger.    He  raised  from  off  her  face  the  pall,  and  "Lo !  " 
He  cried,  "  That  saintly  flesh  which  ye  of  late 
With  sacrilegious  hands,  ere  yet  entombed, 
Had  in  your  superstitious  selfishness 
Almost  torn  piecemeal.     Fools  !     Gross-hearted  fools  ! 
These  limbs  are  God's,  not  yours :  in  life  for  you 
They  spent  themselves ;  now  till  the  judgment-day 
By  virtue  of  the  Spirit  embalmed  they  lie  — 
Touch  them  who  dare.     No !     Would  you  find  your  Saint, 
Look  up,  not  down,  where  even  now  she  prays 
Beyond  that  blazing  orb  for  you  and  me. 
Why  hither  bring  her  corpse  ?     Why  hide  her  clay 
In  jewelled  ark  beneath  God's  mercy-seat  — 


SCENE  I.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  299 

A  speck  of  dust  among  these  boundless  aisles, 

Uprushing  pillars,  star-bespangied  roofs, 

Whose  colors  mimic  Heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Save  to  remind  you,  how  she  is  not  here, 

But  risen  with  Him  that  rose,  and  by  His  blaze 

Absorbed,  lives  in  the  God  for  whom  she  died  ? 

Know  her  no  more  according  to  the  fiesh ; 

Or  only  so,  to  brand  upon  your  thoughts 

How  she  was  once  a  woman  —  flesh  and  blood, 

Like  you  —  yet  how  unlike  !     Hark  while  I  tell  ye." 

zd Monk.    How  liked  the  mob  all  this?     They  hate  him 
sore. 

Ger.    Half  awed,  half  sullen,  till  his  golden  lips 
Entranced  all  ears  with  tales  so  sad  and  strange, 
They  seemed  one  life-long  miracle :  bliss  and  woe, 
Honor  and  shame  —  her  daring — Heaven's  stern  guidance, 
Did  each  the  other  so  outblaze. 

\st  Monk.  Great  signs 

Did  wait  on  her  from  youth. 

2.d  Monk.  There  went  a  tale 

Of  one,  a  Zingar  wizard,  who,  on  her  birthnight, 
He  here  in  Eisenach,  she  in  Presburg  lying, 
Declared  her  natal  moment,  and  the  glory 
Which  should  befall  her  by  the  grace  of  God. 

Ger.    He  spoke  of  that,  and  many  a*wonder  more, 
Melting  all  hearts  to  worship  —  how  a  robe 
Which  from  her  shoulders,  at  a  royal  feast, 
To  some  importunate  as  alms  she  sent, 
l!y  miracle  within  her  bower  was  hung  again  : 
And  how  on  her  own  couch  the  Incarnate  Son 
In  likeness  of  a  leprous  serf,  she  laid  : 
And  many  a  wondrous  talc,  till  now  unheard; 
Which,  from  her  handmaid's  oath  and  attestation, 
Siegfried  of  Maintz  to  far  Perugia  sent, 


300  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY. 


Ami  sainted  Umbria's  labyrinthine  hills, 

Even  to  the    oly  Council,  where  the  Patriarchs 

Of  Antioch  and  Jerusalem,  and  with  them 

A  host  of  prelates,  magnates,  knights,  and  nobles, 

Decreed  and  canonized  her  sainthood's  palm. 

\st  Monk.    Mass,  they  could  do  no  less. 

Ger.  So  thought  my  master  — 

For,  "Thus,"  quoth  he,  "the  primates  of  the  Faith 
Have,  in  the  bull  which  late  was  read  to  you, 
Most  wisely  ratified  the  will  of  God 
Revealed  in  her  life's  splendor:  for  the  next  count  — 
These  miracles  wherewith  since  death  she  shines  — 
Since  ye  must  have  your  signs,  ere  ye  believe, 
And  since  without  such  tests  the  Roman  Father 
Allows  no  saints  to  take  their  seats  in  heaven, 
Why,  there  ye  have  them  ;  not  a  friar,  I  find, 
Or  old  wife  in  the  streets,  but  counts  some  dozens 
Of  blind,  deaf,  halt,  dumb,  palsied,  and  hysterical, 
Made  whole  at  this  her  tomb.     A  corpse  or  two 
Was  raised,  they  say,  last  week  :     Will  that  content  you  ? 
Will  that  content  her  ?  Earthworms!  Would  ye  please  the  dead, 
Bring  sinful  souls,  not  limping  carcases 
To  test  her  power  on  ;  which  of  you  hath  done  that  ? 
Has  any  glutton  learnt  from  her  to  fast? 
Or  oily  burgher  dealt  aTvay  his  pelf  ? 
Has  any  painted  Jezebel  in  sackcloth 
Repented  of  her  vanities  ?     Your  patron  ? 
Think  ye,  that  spell  and  flame  of  intercession, 
Melting  God's  iron  will,  which  for  your  sakes 
She  purchased  by  long  agonies,  was  but  meant 
To  save  your  doctor's  bills  ?     If  any  soul 
Hath  been  by  her  made  holier,  let  it  speak !  " 

2d  Monk.   Well  spoken,  Legate  !      Easier  asked  than  an- 
swered. 


SCENE  i.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  3OI 

Ger.    Not  so,  for  on  the  moment,  from  the  crowd 
Sprang  out  a  gay  and  gallant  gentleman 
Well  known  in  fight  and  tourney,  and  aloud 
With  sobs  and  blushes  told,  how  he  long  time 
Had  wallowed  deep  in  mire  of  fleshly  sin, 
And  loathed,  and  fell  again,  and  loathed  in  vain ; 
Until  the  story  of  her  saintly  grace 
Drew  him  unto  her  tomb ;  there  long  prostrate 
With  bitter  cries  he  sought  her,  till  at  length 
The  image  of  her  perfect  loveliness 
Transfigured  all  his  soul,  and  from  his  knees 
He  rose  new-born,  and,  since  that  blessed  day, 
In  chastest  chivalry,  a  spotless  knight, 
Maintains  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  cause. 

ist  Monk.   Well  done  !  and  what  said  Conrad  ? 

Ger.  Oh,  he  smiled, 

As  who  should  say,  "  'T  was  but  the  news  I  looked  for." 
Then,  pointing  to  the  banners  borne  on  high, 
Where  the  sad  story  of  her  nightly  penance 
Was  all  too  truly  painted  —  "  Look  !  "  he  cried, 
"'Twas  thus  she  schooled  her  soft  and  shuddering  flesh 
To  dare  and  suffer  for  you  !  "     Gay  ladies  sighed, 
And  stern  knights  wept,  and  growled,  and  wept  again. 
And  then  he  told  her  alms,  her  mighty  labors, 
Among  God's  poor,  the  schools  wherein  she  taught ; 
The  babes  she  brought  to  the  font,  the  hospitals 
Founded  from  her  own  penury,  where  she  tended 
The  leper  and  the  fever-stricken  serf 
With  meanest  office  ;  how  a  dying  slave 
Who  craved  in  vain  for  milk  she  stooped  to  feed 
From  her  own  bosom.     At  that  crowning  tale 
Of  utter  love,  the  dullest  hearts  caught  fire 
Contagious  from  his  lips  —  the  Spirit's  breath 
Low  to  the  earth,  like  dewy-laden  corn, 


3O2  THE  SAINTS   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

Bowed  the  ripe  harvest  of  that  mighty  host  ; 
Knees  bent,  all  heads  were  bare  ;  rich  dames  aloud 
Bewailed  their  cushioned  sloth  ;  old  foes  held  out 
Long  parted  hands  ;  low  murmured  vows  and  prayers 
Gained  courage,  till  a  shout  proclaimed  her  saint, 
And  jubilant  thunders  shook  the  ringing  air, 
Till  birds  dropped  stunned,  and  passing  clouds  bewept 
With  crystal  drops,  like  sympathizing  angels, 
Those  wasted  limbs,  whose  sainted  ivory  round 
Shed  Eden-odors  :  from  his  royal  head 
The  Kaiser  took  his  crown,  and  on  the  bier 
Laid  the  rich  offering;  dames  tore  off  their  jewels  — 
Proud  nobles  heaped  with  gold  and  gems  her  corse 
Whom  living  they  despised  :  I  saw  no  more  - 
Mine  eyes  were  blinded  with  a  radiant  mist  — 
And  I  ran  here  to  tell  you. 

\st  Monk.  Oh,  fair  olive, 

Rich  with  the  Spirit's  unction,  how  thy  boughs 
Rain  balsams  on  us  ! 

id  Monk.    Thou  didst  sell  thine  all  — 
And   bought'st  the  priceless  pearl  ! 

if/  Monk.  Thou  holocaust  of  Abel. 

By  Cain  in  vain  despised  ! 

zd  Monk.    Thou  angels'  playmate 
Of  yore,  but  now  their  judge  ! 

Ger.  Thou  alabaster, 

Broken  at  last,  to  fill  the  house  of  God 
With  rich  celestial  frarance  ! 

\Etc.  etc.,  ad  libitum. 


SCENE  II.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  303 


SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  a  Convent  at  Mayence.     CONRAD  alone. 
Con.    The  work  is  done  !     Diva  Elizabeth  ! 
And  I  have  trained  one  saint  before  I  die  ! 
Yet  now  'tis  done,  is  't  well  done  ?     On  my  lips 
Is  triumph  :  but  what  echo  in  my  heart  ? 
Alars !  the  inner  voice  is  sad  and  dull, 
Even  at  the  crown  and  shout  of  victory. 
Oh !  I  had  hugged  this  purpose  to  my  heart, 
Cast  by  for  it  all  ruth,  all  pride,  all  scruples ; 
Yet  now  its  face,  that  seemed  as  pure  as  crystal, 
Shows  fleshly,  foul,  and  stained  with  tears  and  gore  ! 
We  make,  and  moil,  like  children  in  their  gardens, 
And  spoil  with  dabbled  hands,  our  flowers  i'  the  planting. 
And  yet  a  saint  is  made  !     Alas,  those  children  ! 
Was  there  no  gentler  way  ?     I  know  not  any  : 
I  plucked  the  gay  moth  from  the  spider's  web ; 
What  if  my  hasty  hand  have  smirched  its  feathers  ? 
Sure,  if  the  whole  be  good,  each  several  part 
May  for  its  private  blots  forgiveness  gain, 
As  in  man's  tabernacle,  vile  elements 
Unite  to  one  fair  stature.     Who  '11  gainsay  it  ? 
The  whole  is  good ;  another  saint  in  heaven  ; 
Another  bride  within  the  Bridegroom's  arms ; 
And  she  will  pray  for  me  ! —  And  yet  what  matter? 
Better  that  I,  this  paltry  sinful  unit, 
Fall  fighting,  crushed  into  the  nether  pit, 
If  my  dead  corpse  may  bridge  the  path  to  Heaven, 
And  damn  itself,  to  save  the  souls  of  others. 
A  noble  ruin  :  yet  small  comfort  in  it ; 
In  it,  or  in  ought  else 


304  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

A  blank  dim  cloud  before  mine  inward  sense 

Dulls  all  the  past :  she  spoke  of  such  a  cloud 

I  struck  her  for 't,  and  said  it  was  a  fiend 


She's  happy  now,  before  the  throne  of  God 

1  should  be  merry ;  yet  my  heart's  floor  sinks 

As  on  a  fast  day;  sure  some  evil  bodes. 

Would  it  were  here,  that  I  might  see  its  eyes! 

The  future  only  is  unbearable  ! 

We  quail  before  the  rising  thunderstorm 

Which  thrills  and  whispers  in  the  stifled  air, 

Yet  blench  not,  when  it  falls.     Would  it  were  here ! 

[Pause.] 

I  fain  would  sleep,  yet  dare  not :  all  the  air 
Throngs  thick  upon  me  with  the  pregnant  terror 
Of  life  unseen,  yet  near.     I  dare  not  meet  them, 

As  if  I  sleep  I  shall  do 1  again  ? 

What  matter  what  I  feel,  or  like,  or  fear  ? 

Come  what  God  sends.     Within  there  —  Brother  Gerard! 

GERARD  enters. 

Watch  here  an  hour,  and  pray.  —  The  fiends  are  busy. 
So  —  hold  my  hand.      (Crosses  himself.}      Come  on,  I  fear 
you  not.  \Sleeps, 

GERARD  sings. 
Qui  fugiens  mundi  gravia 
Contempsit  carnis  bravia, 
Cupidinisque  somnia, 
Lucratur,  perdens,  omnia. 


Hunc  gestant  ulnis  angeli, 
Ne  lapis  officiat  pedi ; 
Ne  luce  timor  occupet, 
Aut  nocte  pestis  incubet. 


SCENE  IT.  77/7?  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  305 

Huic  cceli  lilia  germinant ; 

Arrisus  sponsi  permanent ; 

Ac  nomen  in  fidelibus 

Quam  filiorum  meclius.  [Sleeps. 

Conrad  (awaking}.     Stay  !    Spirits,  stay !     Art  thou  a  hell- 
born  phantasm, 

Or  word  too  true,  sent  by  the  mother  of  God  ? 
Oh,  tell  me,  queen  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh,  God !   if  she,  the  city  of  the  Lord, 
Who  is  the  heart,  the  brain,  the  ruling  soul 
Of  half  the  earth ;  wherein  all  kingdoms,  laws, 
Authority,  and  faith  do  culminate, 
And  draw  from  her  their  sanction  and  their  use ; 
The  lighthouse  founded  on  the  rock  of  ages, 
Whereto  the  Gentiles  look,  and  still  are  healed ; 
The  tree  whose  rootlets  drink  of  every  river, 
Whose  boughs  drop  Eden  fruits  on  seaward  isles ; 
Christ's  seamless  coat,  rainbowed  with  gems  and  hues 
Of  all  degrees  and  uses,  rend,  and  tarnish, 
And  crumble  into  dust ! 
Vanitas  vanilatum,  omnia  vanitas  ! 
Oh  !  to  have  prayed,  and  toiled — and  lied  —  for  this! 
For  this  to  have  crushed  out  the  heart  of  youth, 
And  sat  by  calm,  while  living  bodies  burned ! 
How!  Gerard;  sleeping! 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  one  hour,  my  son  ? 

Ger.  (awaking}.      How!   have    I    slept?     Shame   on   my 

vaporous  brain  ! 

And  yet  there  crept  along  my  hand  from  thine 
A  leaden  languor,  and  the  drowsy  air 
Teemed  thick  with  humming  wings  —  I  slept  perforce. 
Forgive  me  (while  for  breach  of  holy  rule 
Due  penance  shall  seem  honor)  my  neglect. 


306  THE  SATXT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v 

Con.    I  should  have  beat  thee  for 't,  an  hour  agone  — 
Now  I  judge  no  man.     What  are  rules  and  methods  ? 
I  have  seen  things  which  make  my  brain-sphere  reel : 
My  magic  teraph-bust,  full-packed,  and  labelled, 
With  saws,  ideas,  dogmas,  ends,  and  theories, 
Lies  shivered  into  clust.     Pah  !    we  do  squint 
Each  through  his  loop-hole,  and  then  dream,  broad  heaven 
Is  but  the  patch  we  see.     But  let  none  know; 
Be  silent,  Gerard,  wary. 

Ger.                                  Nay  —  I  know  nought 
Of  that  which  moves  thee  :  though  I  fain  would  ask 

Con.    I  saw  our  mighty  Mother,  Holy  Church, 
Sit  like  a  painted  harlot :  round  her  limbs 
An  oily  snake  had  coiled,  who  smiled,  and  smiled, 
And  lisped  the  name  of  Jesus  —  I  '11  not  tell  thee  : 
I  have  seen  more  than  man  can  see,  and  live : 
God,  when  He  grants  the  tree  of  knowledge,  bans 
The  luckless  seer  from  off  the  tree  of  life, 
Lest  he  become  as  gods,  and  burst  with  pride ; 
Or  sick  at  sight  of  his  own  nothingness, 
Lie  down,  and  be  a  fiend  :  my  time  is  near : 
Well  —  I  have  neither  child,  nor  kin,  nor  friend, 
Save  thee,  my  son  ;  I  shall  go  lightly  forth. 
Thou  knowest  we  start  for  Marpurg  on  the  morrow  ? 
Thou  wilt  go  with  me  ? 

Ger.  Ay,  to  death,  my  master; 

Yet  boorish  heretics,  with  grounded  throats, 
Mutter  like  sullen  bulls;  the  Count  of  Saym, 
And  many  gentlemen,  they  say,  have  sworn 
A  fearful  oath  :  there  's  danger  in  the  wind. 

Con.    They  have  their  quarrel ;  I  was  keen  and  hasty  : 
Gladio  qui  utitur,  peribit  gladio. 

When  Heaven  is  strong,  then  Hell  is  strong :   Thou  fear'st 
not? 


SCENE  in.  THE  SATXT'S  TRAGEDY.  307 

Ger.    No!  tliough  their  name  were  legion  !     'T  is  for  thee 
Alone  I  quake,  lest  by  some  pious  boldness 
Thou  quench  the  light  of  Israel. 

Con.  Light  ?  my  son  ! 

There  shall  no  light  be  quenched,  when  I  lie  dark. 
Our  path  trends  outward  :  we  will  forth  to-morrow. 
Now  let 's  to  chapel ;  matin  bells  are  ringing.  \Excunt. 

SCENE  III. 

A  road  between  Eisenach  and  Marpurg.     Peasants  waiting  by 
the  road-side.     WALTER  OF  VARILA,  the  COUNT  OF  SAYM, 
and  otlicr  gentlemen  entering  on  horseback. 
Gent.    Talk  not  of  honor  —  Hell  's  a  flame  within  me  : 
Foul  water  quenches  fire  as  well  ?.s  fair ; 
If  I  do  meet  him  he  shall  die  the  death, 
Come  fair,  come  foul  :  I  tell  you,  there  are  wrongs 
The  fumbling  piecemeal  law  can  never  touch, 
Which  bring  of  themselves  to  the  injured,  right  divine, 
Straight  from  the  fount  of  right,  above  all  parchments, 
To  be  their  own  avengers :  dainty  lawyers, 
If  one  shall  slay  the  adulterer  in  the  act, 
Dare  not  condemn  him :  girls  have  stabbed  their  tyrants, 
And  common  sense  has  crowned  them  saints;  yet  what  — 
What  were  their  wrongs  to  mine  ?     All  gone  !     All  gone  ! 
My  noble  boys,  whom  I  had  trained,  poor  fools, 
To  win  their  spurs,  and  ride  afield  with  me  ! 
I  could  have  spared  them  —  but  my  wife  !  my  lady! 
Those  dainty  limbs,  which  no  eyes  but  mine  — 
Before  that  ruffian  mob  —  Too  much  for  man  ! 
Too  much,  stern  Heaven  !  —  Those  eyes,  those  hands, 
Those  tender  feet,  where  I  have  lain  and  worshipped — • 
Food  for  fierce  flames  !     And  on  the  self-same  day  — 
The  day  that  they  were  seized  —  unheard  —  unargued  — 


308  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

No  witness,  but  one  vile  convicted  thief  — 

The  dog  is  dead  and  buried  :     Well  done,  henchmen ! 

They  are  not  buried  !     Pah  !  their  ashes  flit 

About  the  common  air;  we  pass  them  —  breathe  them! 

The  self-same  day !     If  I  had  had  one  look  ! 

One  word  —  one  single  tiny  spark  of  word, 

Such  as  two  swallows  change  upon  the  wing ! 

She  was  no  heretic :  she  knelt  for  ever 

Before  the  blessed  rood,  and  prayed  for  me. 

Ar  't  sure  he  comes  this  road  ? 

C.  Saym.  My  messenger 

Saw  him  start  forth,  and  watched  him  past  the  crossways. 
An  hour  will  bring  him  here. 

C.  Wai.  How  !  ambuscading  ? 

I  '11  not  sit  by,  while  helpless  priests  are  butchered. 
Shame,  gentles ! 

C.  Saym.  On  my  word,  I  knew  not  on  't 

Until  this  hour  :  my  quarrel 's  not  so  sharp, 
But  I  may  let  him  pass :  my  name  is  righted 
Before  the  Emperor,  from  all  his  slanders; 
And  what 's  revenge  to  me  ? 

Gent.    Ay,  ay  —  forgive  and  forget  — 
The  vermin  's  trapped  —  and  we  '11  be  gentle-handed, 
And  lift  him  out,  and  bid  his  master  speed  him, 
Him  and  his  firebrands.     He  shall  never  pass  me. 

C.  Wai.    I  will  not  see  it ;  I  'm  old,  and  sick  of  blood. 
She  loved  him,  while  she  lived ;  and  charged  me  once, 
As  her  sworn  liegeman,  not  to  harm  the  knave. 
I  '11  home  :  yet,  knights,  if  aught  untoward  happen, 
And  you  should  need  a  shelter,  come  to  me : 
My    walls    arc    strong.      Home,    knaves !    we  '11    seek    our 

wives, 
And  beat  our  swords  to  ploughshares  —  when  folks  let  us. 

[Exeunt  COUNT  WALTER  and  Suite. 


SCENE  in.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  309 

C.  Saym.    He's  gone,  brave    heart! — But — sir,  you  will 

not  dare  ? 
The  Pope's  own  Legate  —  think  —  there's  danger  in  't. 

Gent.    Look,  how  athwart  yon  sullen  sleeping  flats 
That  frowning  thunder-cloud  sails  pregnant  hither;  — 
And  black  against  its  sheeted  gray,  one  bird 
Flags  fearful  onward  —  'T  is  his  cursed  soul ! 
Now  thou  shalt  quake,  raven  !  —  The  self-same  day  !  — 
He  cannot  'scape  !     The  storm  is  close  upon  him  ! 
There  !  There  !  the  wreathing  spouts  have  swallowed  him  ! 
He  's  gone !  and  see,  the  keen  blue  spark  leaps  out  ^ 
From  crag  to  crag,  and  every  vaporous  pillar 
Sliouts  forth  his  death-doom  !     'Tis  a  sign,  a  sign ! 

\A  heretic  Preacher  mounts  a  stone.    Peasants  gather  round  /iimJ\ 

These  are  the  starved  unlettered  hinds,  forsooth, 

He  hunted  down  like  vermin  —  for  a  doctrine. 

They  have  their  rights,  their  wrongs ;  their  lawless  laws, 

Their  witless  arguings,  which  unconscious  reason 

Informs  to  just  conclusions.     We  will  hear  them. 

Preacher.  My  brethen,  I  have  a  message  to  you  :  therefore 
hearken  with  all  your  ears  —  for  now  is  the  day  of  salvation. 
It  is  written,  that  the  children  of  this  world  are  in  their  genera- 
tion wiser  than  the  children  of  light  —  and  truly :  for  the 
children  of  this  world,  when  they  are  troubled  with  vermin, 
catch  them  —  and  hear  no  more  of  them.  But  you,  the  chil- 
dren of  light,  the  elect  saints,  the  poor  of  this  world  rich  in 
faith,  let  the  vermin  eat  your  lives  out,  and  then  fall  down 
and  worship  them  afterwards.  You  are  all  besotted — hag- 
ridden—  drunkards  sitting  in  the  stocks,  and  bowing  down 
to  the  said  stocks,  and  making  a  god  thereof.  Of  part,  said 
the  prophet,  ye  make  a  god,  and  part  serveth  tc  roast  —  to 
roast  the  flesh  of  your  sons  and  of  your  daughters;  and  then 
ye  cry,  "  Aha,  I  am  warm,  I  have  seen  the  fire ;  "  and  a 


310  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

special  fire  ye  have  seen !  The  ashes  of  your  wives  and  of 
your  brothers  cleave  to  your  clothes.  —  Cast  them  up  to 
Heaven,  cry  aloud,  and  quit  yourselves  like  men  ! 

Gent.  He  speaks  God's  truth  !  We  are  Heaven's  justicers  ! 
Our  woes  anoint  us  kings  !  Peace  —  Hark  again  !  — 

Preacher.  Therefore,  as  said  before  —  in  the  next  place  — 
It  is  written,  that  there  shall  be  a  two-edged  sword  in  the 
hand  of  the  saints.  But  the  saints  have  but  two  swords  — 
Was  there  a  sword  or  shield  found  among  ten  thousand 
in  Israel  ?  Then  let  Israel  use  his  fists,  say  I,  the  preacher  ! 
For  this  man  hath  shed  blood,  and  by  man  shall  his  blood  be 
shed.  Now  behold  an  argument.  —  This  man  hath  shed 
blood,  even  Conrad  ;  ergo,  as  he  saith  himself,  ye,  if  ye  are 
men,  shall  shed  his  blood.  Doth  he  not  himself  say  ergo  ? 
Hath  he  not  said  ergo  to  the  poor  saints,  to  your  sons  and 
your  daughters,  whom  he  hath  burned  in  the  fire  to  Moloch  ? 
"Ergo,  thou  art  a  heretic"  —  "Ergo,  thou  shalt  burn."  Is 
he  not  therefore  convicted  out  of  his  own  mouth  ?  Arise, 
therefore,  be  valiant  —  for  this  day  he  is  delivered  into  your 
hand ! 

[Chanting  heard  in  the  distance^ 
Peasant.    Hush  !    here  the  psalm-singers  come  ! 

CONRAD  enters  on  a  mule,  chanting  the  psalter,  GERARD 

following. 

Con.    My  peace  with  you,  my  children  ! 
ist  Voice.    Psalm  us  no  psalms ;  bless  us  no  devil's  bles- 
sings : 

Your  balms  will  break  our  heads.  \A  murmur  rises. 

2.d  Voice.    You  are  welcome,  sir;   we  are  a-waiting'for  you. 
3//  Voice.    Has  he  been  shriven  to-day  ? 
$th  Voice.    Where  is  your  ergo,  Master  Conrad  ?     Faugh  ! 
How  both  the  fellows  smell  of  smoke  ! 


SCENE  nr.  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  311 

5///  Voice.    A  strange  leech  he,  to  suck,  and  suck,  and  suck, 
And  look  no  fatter  for  't ! 

Old  Woman.    Give  me  back  my  sons  ! 

Oil  Man.    Give  me  back  the  light  of  mine  eyes, 
Mine  only  daughter ! 

Mv  only  one  !     He  hurled  her  over  the  cliffs  ! 
Avenge  me,  lads  ;  you  are  young ! 

$th  Voice.    We  will,  we  will :    why  smit'st    him    not,    thou 
with  the  pole-axe  ? 

3</  Voice.    Nay,  now,  the  first  blow  costs  most,  and  heals 

last : 
Besides,  the  dog  's  a  priest,  at  worst. 

C.  Saym.    Mass  !    How  the  shaveling  rascal  stands  at  bay ! 
There 's  not  a  rogue  of  them  dare  face  his  eye ! 
True  Domini  canes  !     '  Ware  the  bloodhound's  teeth,  curs  ! 

Preacher.    What !     Are  ye  afraid  ?     The  huntsman 's  here 
at  last 

Without  his  whip  !     Down  with  him,  craven  hounds  ! 
I  '11  help  ye  to  't.  [Springs  from  the  stone. 

Gent.    Ay,    clown   with   him !     Mass,    have   these    yelping 

boors 
More  heart  than  I  ?  \Spurs  his  horse  forward. 

Mob.    A  knight !  a  champion  ! 

Voice.  He  's  not  mortal  man  ! 

See  how  his  eyes  shine  !     'T  is  the  archangel ! 
St.  Michael  come  to  the  rescue  !     Ho  !  St.  Michael ! 

\He  lunges  at  CONRAD.     GERARD  turns  the  lance  aside,  and 

throws  his  arms  round  CONRAD.] 
Ger.    My  master!  my  master !     The  chariot  of  Israel  and 

the  horses  thereof ! 
Oh  call  down  fire  from  Heaven  ! 

\A  peasant  strikes  down  GERARD.     CONRAD,  over  the  bodyl\ 


312  THE  SAINT'S   TRAGEDY.  ACT  v. 

Alas  !  my  son  !     This  blood  shall  cry  for  vengeance 
Before  the  throne  of  God  ! 

Gent.  And  cry  in  vain ! 

Follow  thy  minion  !     Join  Folquet  in  hell ! 

[Bears  CONRAD  down  on  his  lance-point. 

Con.    I  am  the  vicar  of  the  Vicar  of  Christ : 
Who  touches  me  doth  touch  the  Son  of  God. 

[The  mob  dose  over  him.~\ 
Oh  God !     A  martyr's  crown !     Elizabeth !  [Dies. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY. 


NOTES  TO  ACT  I. 

THE  references,  unless  it  be  otherwise  specified,  are  to  the  Eight  Books 

concerning  Saint  Elizabeth,  by  Dietrich  the   Thuringian  ;  in  Basnage's 

Camsius,  Vol.  IV.  p.  113  (Antwerp,  1725). 

Page  161.  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  3.  Dietrich  is  eloquent  about  her  youthful 
inclination  for  holy  places,  and  church  doors,  even  when  shut,  and  gives 
many  real  proofs  of  her  "  sanctae  indolis,"  from  the  very  cradle. 

P.  162.  "St.  John's  sworn  maid."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  4.  "She  chose  by 
lot  for  her  patron,  St.  John  the  protector  of  virginity." 

Ibid.  "  Fit  for  my  princess."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  2.  "  He  sent  with  his 
daughter  vessels  of  gold,  silver  baths,  jewels,  pillows  all  of  silk.  No  such 
things,  so  precious  or  so  many,  were  ever  seen  in  Thuringen-land." 

P.  163.  "  Most  friendless."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §§  5,  6.  "The  courtiers  used 
bitterly  to  insult  her,  etc.  Her  mother  and  sister-in-law,  given  to  worldly 
pomp,  differed  from  her  exceedingly ;  "  and  much  more  concerning  "  the 
persecutions  which  she  endured  patiently  in  youth." 

Ibid.  "  In  one  cradle."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  2.  "  The  princess  was  laid  in 
the  cradle  of  her  boy-spouse,"  and,  says  another,  "  the  infants  embraced 
with  smiles,  from  whence  the  bystanders  drew  a  joyful  omen  of  their 
future  happiness." 

P.  164.  "If  thou  love  him."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  6.  "The  Lord  by  his 
hidden  inspiration  so  inclined  towards  her  the  heart  of  the  prince,  that 
in  the  solitude  of  secret  and  mutual  love  he  used  to  speak  sweetly  to  her 
heart,  with  kindness  and  consolation ;  and  was  always  wont,  on  return- 
ing home,  to  honor  her  with  presents,  and  soothe  her  with  embraces." 
It  was  their  custom,  says  Dietrich,  to  the  last  to  call  each  other  in  com- 
mon conversation  "  Brother"  and  "  Sister." 

Ibid.  "  To  his  charge."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7.  "  Walter  of  Varila,  a  good 
man  who,  having  been  sent  by  the  prince's  father  into  Hungary,  had 
brought  the  blessed  Elizabeth  into  Thuringen-land." 

3'3 


314  NOTES. 


P.  1 66.  "The  blind  archer,  Love."  For  information  about  the  pagan 
orientalism  of  the  Troubadours,  the  blasphemous  bombast  by  which  they 
provoked  their  persecution  in  Provence,  and  their  influence  on  the  Courts 
of  Europe,  see  Sismondi,  Lit.  Southern  Europe,  Cap.  III.-VI. 

P.  168.  "  Stadings."  The  Stadings,  according  to  Fleury,  in  A.  D. 
1233,  were  certain  unruly  fcnmen,  who  refused  to  pay  tithes,  committed 
great  cruelties  on  religious  of  both  sexes,  worshipped,  or  were  said  to 
worship,  a  black  cat,  etc.,  considered  the  devil  as  a  very  ill-used  person- 
age, and  the  rightful  lord  of  themselves  and  the  world,  and  were  of  the 
most  profligate  morals.  An  impartial  and  philosophic  investigation  of 
this  and  other  early  continental  heresies  is  much  wanted. 

P.  178.  "All  gold."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7,  for  Walter's  interference  and 
Lewis's  answer,  which  I  have  paraphrased. 

P.  180.  "Is  crowned  with  thorns."  Cf.  Lib.  i.  §  5,  for  this  anecdote 
and  her  defence,  which  I  have  in  like  manner  paraphrased. 

Ibid.  "  Their  pardon."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  3,  for  this  quaint  method  of 
self-humiliation. 

P.  181.  "You  know  your  place."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  6.  "The  vassals  and 
relations  of  her  betrothed  persecuted  her  openly,  and  plotted  to  send  her 
back  to  her  father  divorced.  .  .  .  Sophia  also  did  all  she  could  to  place 
her  in  a  convent.  .  .  .  She  delighted  in  the  company  of  maids  and 
servants,  so  that  Sophia  used  to  say  sneeringly  to  her,  '  You  should  have 
been  counted  among  the  slaves  who  drudge,  and  not  among  the  princes 
who  rule.' " 

P.  183.  "Childish  laughter."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7.  "The  holy  maiden, 
receiving  the  mirror,  showed  her  joy  by  delighted  laughter : "  and  again, 
II.  §  8,  "They  loved  each  other  in  the  charity  of  the  Lord,  to  a  degree 
beyond  all  belief." 

Ibid.   "  A  crystal  clear."     Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7. 

P.  185.  "Our  fairest  bride."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  8.  "No  one  henceforth 
dared  oppose  the  marriage  by  word  or  plot,  .  .  .  and  all  mouths  were 
stopped." 

NOTES  TO  ACT  II. 

Pp.  186-191.     Cf.  Lib.  II.  §§  i,  5,  IT,  et passim. 

Hitherto  my  notes  have  been  a  careful  selection  of  the  few  grains  of 
characteristic  fact  which  I  could  find  among  Dietrich's  lengthy  profes- 
sional reflections ;  but  the  chapter  on  which  this  scene  is  founded  is 
remarkable  enough  to  be  given  whole,  and  as  I  have  a  long-standing 
friendship  for  the  good  old  monk,  who  is  full  of  honest  naivete  and 
deep-hearted  sympathy,  and  have  no  wish  to  disgust  all  my  readers  with 


NOTES.  315 


him,  I  shall  give  it  for  the  most  part  untranslated.  In  the  meantime 
those  who  may  be  shocked  at  certain  expressions  in  this  poem,  borrowed 
from  the  Romish  devotional  school,  may  verify  my  language  at  the 
Romish  booksellers',  who  find  just  now  a  rapidly  increasing  sale  for -such 
ware.  And  is  it  not  after  all  a  hopeful  sign  for  the  age  that  even  the 
most  questionable  literary  tastes  must  nowadays  ally  themselves  with 
religion  —  that  the  hotbed  imaginations  which  used  to  batten  on  Rousseau 
and  Byron  have  now  risen  at  least  as  high  as  the  Vies  des  Saints  and  St. 
Francois  de  Sales'  Philothea  ?  The  truth  is,  that  in  such  a  time  as  this, 
in  the  dawn  of  an  age  of  faith,  whose  future  magnificence  we  may  surely 
prognosticate  from  the  slowness  and  complexity  of  its  self-developing 
process,  spiritual  "  Werterism,"  among  other  strange  prolusions,  must 
have  its  place.  The  emotions  and  the  imaginations  will  assert  their  just 
right  to  be  fed  —  by  foul  means  if  not  by  fair;  and  even  self-torture  will 
have  charms  after  the  utter  dryness  and  life-in-death  of  mere  ecclesias- 
tical pedantry.  It  is  good,  mournful  though  it  be,  that  a  few,  even  by 
gorging  themselves  with  poison,  should  indicate  the  rise  of  a  spiritual 
hunger  —  if  we  do  but  take  their  fate  as  a  warning  to  provide  wholesome 
food  before  the  new  craving  has  extended  itself  to  the  many.  It  is  good 
that  religion  should  have  its  Werterism,  in  order  that  hereafter  Werter- 
ism may  have  its  religion.  But  to  my  quotations  —  wherein  the  reader 
will  judge  how  difficult  it  has  been  for  me  to  satisfy  at  once  the  delicacy 
of  the  English  mind  and  that  historic  truth  which  the  highest  art 
demands. 

"  Erat  inter  eos  honorabile  connubium,  et  thorus  immaculatus,  non  in 
ardore  libidinis,  sed  in  conjugalis  sanctimoniae  castitate.  For  the  holy 
maiden,  as  soon  as  she  was  married,  began  to  macerate  her  flesh  with 
many  watchings,  rising  every  night  to  pray;  her  husband  sometimes 
sleeping,  sometimes  conniving  at  her,  often  begging  her,  in  compassion 
to  her  delicacy,  not  to  afflict  herself  indiscreetly,  often  supporting  her 
with  his  hand  when  she  prayed."  ("And,"  says  another  of  her  biogra- 
phers, "being  taught  by  her  to  pray  with  her.")  "Great,  truly,  was  the 
devotion  of  this  young  girl,  who,  rising  from  the  bed  of  her  carnal 
husband,  sought  Christ,  whom  she  loved  as  the  true  Jinsband  of  Jicr  soul. 

"  Nor  certainly  was  there  less  faith  in  the  husband  who  did  not  oppose 
such  and  so  great  a  wife,  but  rather  favored  her,  and  tempered  her 
fervor  with  over-kind  prudence.  Affected,  therefore,  by  the  sweetness  of 
this  modest  love,  and  mutual  society,  they  could  not  bear  to  be  separated 
for  any  length  of  time  or  distance.  The  lady,  therefore,  frequently  fol- 
lowed her  husband  through  rough  roads,  and  no  small  distances,  and 
severe  wind  and  weather,  led  rather  by  emotions  of  sincerity  than  of  car- 


316  NOTES. 


nality:  for  the  chaste  presence  of  a  modest  husband  offered  >io  obstatl 
to  that  de^'out  spouse  in  the  way  of  fraying,  watching,  or  otherwise  doing 
good" 

Then  follows  the  story  of  her  nurse  waking  Lewis  instead  of  her,  and 
Lewis's  easy  good-nature  about  this,  as  about  every  other  event  of  life 
"  And  so,  after  these  unwearied  watchings,  it  often  happened  that  pray- 
ing for  an  excessive  length  of  time,  she  fell  asleep  on  a  mat  beside  her 
husband's  bed,  and  being  reproved  for  it  by  her  maidens,  answered: 
'  Though  I  cannot  always  pray,  yet  I  can  do  violence  to  my  own  flesh  by 
tearing  myself  in  the  meantime  from  my  couch.' " 

"  Fugiebat  oblectamenta  carnalia,  et  ideo  stratum  molliorern,  et  i<iri 
contnberninm  secretissiniuni,  qiumtiun  licnit,  declinavit.  Quern  qtianivis 
priccordialis  amor  is  affectu  ddigeret,  querulabatur  tarn  en  dolens,  quod  virgin- 
alls  dccorcm  floris  iion  meruit  conservare.  Castigabat  etiam  plagis  multis, 
et  lacerabat  diris  verberibus  carnem  puella  innocens  et  pudica. 

"  In  principio  quidem  diebus  quadragesimae,  sextisque  feriis  aliis 
occultas  solebat  accipere  disciplinas,  lastam  coram  hominibus  se  osten- 
tans.  Post  veto  convalescent  ct  proficiens  in  gratia,  deserto  dilecti  thoro 
surgens,  fecit  se  in  secreto  cubiculo  per  ancillarum  manus  graviter 
saepissime  verberari,  ad  lectumque  mariti  reversa  hilarem  se  exhibuit  et 
jocundam. 

"  Vere  felices  conjuges,  in  quorum  consortio  tanta  munditia,  in  collo- 
quio  pudicitia  reperta  est.  In  quibus  amor  Christi  concupiscentiam 
extinxit,  devotio  refrenavit  petulantiam,  fervor  spiritus  excussit  som- 
nolentiam,  oratio  tutavit  conscientiam,  charitas  benefaciendi  facultatem 
tribuit  et  laetitiam !  " 

P.  201.  "  In  every  scruple."  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  9,  how  Lewis  "consented 
that  Elizabeth  his  wife  should  make  a  vow  of  obedience  and  continence 
at  the  will  of  the  said  Conrad,  salvajure  matrimonii." 

P.  202.  "The  open  street."  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  u.  "On  the  Rogation 
days,  when  certain  persons  doing  contrary  to  the  decrees  of  the  saints 
are  decorated  with  precious  and  luxurious  garments,  the  Princess, 
dressed  in  serge  and  barefooted,  used  to  follow  most  devoutly  the  Pro- 
cession of  the  Cross  and  the  relics  of  the  Saints,  and  place  herself  always 
at  sermon  among  the  poorest  women ;  knowing  (says  Dietrich)  that 
seeds  cast  into  the  valleys  spring  up  into  the  richest  crop  of  corn." 

Ibid.  "The  poor  of  Christ."  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §§  6,  n,  et  passim. 
Elizabeth's  labors  among  the  poor  are  too  well  known  throughout  one 
half  at  least  of  Christendom,  where  she  is, par  excellence,  the  patron  of 
the  poor,  to  need  quotations. 

P.  204.    "I'll  be  thy  pupil."     Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  4.     "She  used  also,  by 


NOTES.  317 


words  and  examples,  to  oblige  the  worldly  ladies  who  came  to  her  to  give 
up  the  vanity  of  the  world,  at  least  in  some  one  particular." 

P.  205.  "Conrad  enters."  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  9,  where  this  story  of  the 
disobeyed  message  and  the  punishment  inflicted  by  Conrad  for  it,  is  told 
word  for  word. 

P.  209.   "  Peaceably  come  by."     Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  6. 

Ibid.   "Bond-slaves."     Cf.  Note  11. 

P.  212.  "Elizabeth  passes."  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  5.  "This  most  Christian 
brother,  impletis  purgationis  sua  diebus,  used  to  dress  herself  in  serge, 
and,  taking  in  her  arms  her  new-born  child,  used  to  go  forth  secretly, 
barefooted,  by  the  difficult  descent  from  the  castle,  by  a  rough  and 
rocky  road  to  a  remote  church,  carrying  her  infant  in  her  own  arms,  after 
the  example  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  offering  him  upon  the  altar  to  the 
Lord  with  a  taper  "  (and  with  gold,  says  another  biographer). 

P.  214.  "Give  us  bread."  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  6.  "A.  D.  1225,  while  the 
Landgrave  was  gone  to  Italy  to  the  Emperor,  a  severe  famine  arose 
throughout  all  Almaine;  and,  lasting  for  nearly  two  years,  destroyed 
many  with  hunger.  Then  Elizabeth,  moved  with  compassion  for  the 
miserable,  collected  all  the  corn  from  her  granaries,  and  distributed  it  as 
alms  for  the  poor.  She  also  built  a  hospital  at  the  foot  of  the  Wartburg, 
wherein  she  placed  all  those  who  could  not  wait  for  the  general  distribu- 
tion. .  .  .  She  sold  her  own  ornaments  to  feed  the  members  of  Christ. 
.  .  .  Cuidam  misero  lac  decideranti,  ad  mulgendum  se  praebuit!"  —  see 
p.  228. 

P.  223.  "Ladies'  tenderness."  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  8.  "When  the 
courtiers  and  stewards  complained  on  his  return  of  the  Lady  Elizabeth's 
too  great  extravagance  in  almsgiving,  '  Let  her  alone,'  quoth  he,  '  to  do 
good,  and  to  give  whatever  she  will  for  God's  sake,  only  keep  Wartburg 
and  Neuenberg  in  my  hands." 

P.  231.  "A  crusader's  cross."  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  i.  "In  the  year  1227 
there  was  a  general  '  Passagium'  to  the  Holy  Land,  in  which  Frederick 
the  Emperor  also  crossed  the  seas  "  (or  rather  did  not  cross  the  seas, 
says  Heinrich  Stero,  in  his  annals,  but  having  got  as  far  as  Sicily,  came 
back  again  —  miserably  disappointing  and  breaking  up  the  expedition, 
whereof  the  greater  part  died  at  the  various  ports  —  and  was  excommu- 
nicated for  so  doing) ;  "  and  Lewis,  landgrave  of  the  Thuringians,  took 
the  cross  likewise  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  .  .  .  did  not  immedi- 
ately fix  the  badge  which  he  had  received  to  his  garment,  as  the  matter 
is,  lest  his  wife,  who  loved  him  with  the  most  tender  affection,  seeing 
this,  should  be  anxious  and  disturbed,  .  .  .  but  she  found  it  while  turning 
over  his  purse,  and  fainted,  struck  down  with  a  wonderful  consternation." 


318  NOTES. 


P.  234.  "  I  must  be  gone."  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  2.  A  chapter  in  which 
Dietrich  rises  into  a  truly  noble  and  pathetic  strain.  "Coming  to 
Schmalcald,"  he  says,  "  L.ewis  found  his  dearest  friends,  whom  he  had 
ordered  to  meet  him  there,  not  wishing  to  depart  without  taking  leave  of 
them. 

Then  follows  Dietrich's  only  poetic  attempt,  which  Basnage  calls  a 
"carmen  incftnni, foolish  ballad,"  and  most  unfairly,  as  all  readers  should 
say,  it  I  had  anv  hope  of  doing  justice  in  a  translation  to  this  genial  frag- 
ment of  an  old  dramatic  ballad,  and  its  simple  objectivity,  as  of  a  writer 
so  impressed  (like  all  true  Teutonic  poets  in  those  earnest  days)  with  the 
pathos  and  greatness  of  his  subject  that  he  never  tries  to  "  improve  "  it 
by  reflections,  and  preaching  at  his  readers,  but  thinks  it  enough  just  to 
tell  his  story,  sure  that  it  will  speak  for  itself  to  all  hearts. 

Quibus  valefaciens  cum  moerore 

Commisit  suis  fratribus  natos  cum  uxore : 

Matremque  deosculatos  filiali  more, 

Vix  caui  alloqititur  cord  is  pne  dolore, 

Illis  mota  viscera,  corda  tremuerunt, 

Dum  alter  ///  alterhts  colla  irnierunt, 

Expctentes  oscula,  qitic  i'ix  rcccpcmnt 

Prof  tcr  mtiltitndines,  qiite  cos  compresserunt. 

JMatcr  tcncns  filiiiin,  itxorque  marititm, 

In  divcrsa  fertrahiint,  et  tenent  invitum, 

Fratres  cum  militibus  velut  compeditum 

Stringunt,  nee  discedere  sinunt  expeditum. 

Erat  in  exercitu  maximus  tumultus, 

Cum  carorum  cerrterent  altcrnari  vultus, 

Flebat  omnes  pariter,  senex  et  adultus, 

Turbae  cum  militibus,  cultus  et  incultus. 

Eja  !   Qiiis  non  plangcret,  cum  I'ideret  flentes 

Tot  honcstos  nobiles,  tarn  diversas  gentes, 

Cum  Thuringis  Saxones  illuc  venientes, 

Ut  viderent  socios  suos  abscedentes. 

Amico  luctamine  cuncti  certavere, 

Quis  eum  diutius  posset  retinere ; 

Quidam  collo  brachiis,  qnidam  itiJursere 

Vestibus,  nee  pot e  rat  cuiquam  respond  ere. 

Tandem  se  de  manibns  cximots  suoritni 

Magnatorum  socius  et  peregrinorum, 

Admixtus  tandem  (~<cttii  mice  signatorum 

Non  visurus  amplius  terrain  Thuringorum  I 


NOTES.  319 


Surely  there  is  a  heart  of  flesh  in  the  old  monk  which,  when  warmed 
by  a  really  healthy  subject,  can  toss  aside  Scripture  parodies  and  profes- 
sional Stoic  sentiment,  and  describe  with  such  life  and  pathos,  like  any 
eye-witness,  a  scene  which  occurred,  in  fact,  two  years  before  his  birth. 

"  And  thus  this  Prince  of  Peace"  he  continues,  " mounting  his  horse 
with  many  knights,  etc.  .  .  .  about  the  end  of  the  month  of  Juiu  . 
^orth  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  praising  him  in  heart  and  voice,  and  weep- 
ing and  singing -were  heard  side  by  side.  And  close  by  followed,  with 
saddest  heart,  that  most  faithful  lady  after  her  sweetest  prince,  her  most 
loving  spouse,  never,  alas !  to  behold  him  more.  And  when  she  was 
going  to  return,  the  force  of  love  and  the  agony  of  separation  forced  her 
on  with  him  one  day's  journey :  and  yet  that  did  not  suffice.  She  went 
on,  still  unable  to  bear  the  parting,  another  full  day's  journey.  ...  At 
last  they  part,  at  the  exhortations  of  Rudolph  the  Cupbearer.  What 
groans  think  you,  what  sobs,  what  struggles,  and  yearnings  of  the  heart 
must  there  have  been  ?  Yet  they  part,  and  go  on  their  way.  .  .  .  The 
lord  went  forth  exulting,  as  a  giant  to  run  his  course  ;  the  lady  returned 
lamenting,  as  a  widow,  and  tears  were  on  her  cheeks.  Then  putting  off 
the  garments  of  joy,  she  took  the  dress  of  widowhood.  The  mistress  of 
nations,  sitting  alone,  she  turned  herself  utterly  to  God  —  to  her  former 
good  works  adding  better  ones." 

Their  children  were  "  Hermann,  who  became  Landgraf;  a  daughter 
who  married  the  Duke  of  Brabant;  another,  who,  remaining  in  virginity, 
became  a  nun  of  Aldenburg,  of  \thich  place  she  is  Lady  Abbess  until 
this  day." 

NOTES  TO  ACT  III. 

P.  238.  "On  the  freezing  stone."  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  5.  "In  the  absence 
of  her  husband  she  used  to  lay  aside  her  gay  garments,  conducted  her- 
self devoutly  as  a  widow,  and  waited  for  the  return  of  her  beloved,  pass- 
ing her  nights  in  watchings,  genuflexions,  prayers,  and  disciplines."  And 
again,  Lib.  IV.  §  3,  just  quoted. 

I'.  240.  "The  will  of  God."  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  6.  "The  mother-in-law 
said  to  her  daughter-in-law,  '  I'e  brave,  my  beloved  daughter;  nor  be  dis- 
turbed at  that  which  hath  happened  by  divine  ordinance  to  thy  husband, 
my  son.'  Whereto  she  answered  boldly.  '  If  my  brother  is  captive 
he  can  be  freed  by  the  help  of  God  and  our  friends.'  'lie  is  dead,' 
quoth  the  other.  Then  she,  clasping  her  hands  upon  her  knees,  *  The 
world  is  dead  to  me,  ami  all  that  is  pleasant  in  the  world.'  Having  said 
this,  suddenly  springing  up  with  tears,  she  rushed  swiftly  through  the 


32O  NOTES. 


whole  length  of  the  palace,  and  being  entirely  beside  herself,  would  have 
run  on  to  the  world's  end,  usque  yiidyue,  if  a  wall  had  not  stopped  her ; 
and  others  coming  up,  led  her  away  from  the  wall  to  which  she  had 
clung." 

1'.  240.  "Yon  lion's  rage."  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  2.  "There  was  a  certain 
lion  in  the  court  of  the  Prince;  and  it  came  to  pass  on  a  time  that  rising 
from  his  bed  in  the  morning,  and  crossing  the  court  dressed  only  in  his 
gown  and  slippers,  he  met  this  lion  loose  and  raging  against  him.  lie 
thereon  threatened  the  beast  with  his  raised  fist,  and  rated  it  manfully, 
till  laying  aside  its  fierceness,  it  lay  down  at  the  knight's  feet,  and  fawned 
on  him,  wagging  its  tail."  So  Dietrich. 

Pp.  244,  245,  248-254.     Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  7. 

"  Now  shortly  after  the  news  of  Lewis's  death,  certain  vassals  of  her 
late  husband  (with  Henry,  her  brother-in-law)  cast  her  out  of  the  castle 
and  of  all  her  possessions.  .  .  .  She  took  refuge  that  night  in  a  certain 
tavern,  .  .  .  and  went  at  midnight  to  the  matins  of  the  '  Minor  Brothers.' 
.  .  .  And  when  no  one  dare  give  her  lodging,  took  refuge  in  the  church. 
.  .  .  And  when  her  little  ones  were  brought  to  her  from  the  castle,  amid 
most  bitter  frost,  she  knew  not  where  to  lay  their  heads.  .  .  .  She 
entered  a  priest's  house,  and  fed  her  family  miserably  enough,  by  pawn- 
ing what  she  had.  There  was  in  that  town  an  enemy  of  hers,  having  a 
roomy  house.  .  .  .  Whither  she  entered  at  his  bidding,  and  was  forced 
to  dwell  with  her  whole  family  in  a  very  narrow  space,  .  .  .  her  host 
and  hostess  heaped  her  with  annoyances  and  spite.  She  therefore  bade 
them  farewell,  saying,  '  I  would  willingly  thank  mankind  if  they  would 
give  me  any  reason  for  so  doing.'  So  she  returned  to  her  former  filthy 
cell." 

P.  245.  "White -as  whales'  bone"  (/'.  e.  the  tooth  of  the  narwhal);  a 
common  simile  in  the  older  poets. 

P.  249.  "The  nuns  of  Kitzingen."  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  I.  "After  this,  the 
noble  Lady  the  Abbess  of  Kitzingen,  Elizabeth's  aunt  according  to  the 
flesh,  brought  her  away  honorably  to  Eckembert,  Lord  Bishop  ot 
Bamberg." 

P.  252.  "Aged  crone."  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  8,  where  this  whole  story  is 
related  word  for  word. 

P.  255.  "  I  'd  mar  this  face."  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  i.  "  If  I  could  not,"  said 
she,  "  escape  by  any  other  means,  I  would  with  my  own  hands  cut  off  my 
nose,  that  so  every  man  might  loathe  me  when  so  foully  disfigured." 

P.  256.  "  Botenstain."  Cf.  ibid.  "The  bishop  commanded  that  she 
should  be  taken  to  Botenstain  with  her  maids,  until  he  should  give  her 
away  in  marriage." 


NOTES.  321 


P.  257.  "  Bear  children."  Ibid.  "  The  venerable  man,  knowing  that 
the  Apostle  says,  '  I  will  that  the  younger  widows  marry  and  bear  chil- 
dren,' thought  of  giving  her  in  marriage  to  some  one  —  an  intention 
which  she  perceived,  and  protested  on  the  strength  of  her  'votum 
continentiae.' " 

P.  259.  "  The  tented  field."  All  records  of  the  worthy  Bishop  on 
which  I  have  fallen,  describe  him  as  "  virum  militia  strenuissimum,"  a 
mighty  man  of  war.  We  read  of  him,  in  Stero  of  Altaich's  Chronicle, 
A.  D.  1232,  making  war  on  the  Duke  of  Carinthia,  destroying  many  of 
his  castles,  and  laying  waste  a  great  part  of  his  land ;  and  next  year, 
being  seized  by  some  bailiff  of  the  Duke's,  and  keeping  that  Lent  in  du- 
rance vile.  In  A.  D.  1237,  he  was  left  by  the  Emperor  as  "vir  magnani- 
mus  et  bellicosus,"  in  charge  of  Austria,  during  the  troubles  with  Duke 
Frederick;  and  died  in  1240. 

P.  261.   "  Lewis's  bones."     Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  3. 

P.  264.  "  I  thank  thee."  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  4.  "  What  agony  and  love 
there  was  then  in  her  heart,  He  alone  can  tell  who  knows  the  hearts  of 
all  the  sons  of  men.  I  believe  that  her  grief  was  renewed,  and  all  her 
bones  trembled,  when  she  saw  the  bones  of  her  beloved  separated  one 
from  another  (the  corpse  had  been  dug  up  at  Otranto,  and  boiled).  But 
though  absorbed  in  so  great  a  woe,  at  last  she  remembered  God,  and 
recovering  her  spirit  said"  —  (Her  words  I  have  paraphrased  as  closely 
as  possible). 

P.  265.   "  The  close  hard  by."    Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  4. 

NOTES  TO  ACT  IV. 

P.  266.  "Your  self-imposed  vows."  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  i.  "On  Good 
Friday,  when  the  altars  were  exhibited  bare  in  remembrance  of  the 
Saviour  who  hung  bare  on  the  cross  for  us,  she  went  into  a  certain 
chapel,  and  in  the  presence  of  Master  Conrad,  and  certain  Franciscan 
brothers,  laying  her  holy  hands  on  the  bare  altar,  renounced  her  own 
will,  her  parents,  children,  relations,  'et  omnibus  hujus  modi  pompis,'  all 
pomps  of  this  kind  (a  misprint,  one  hopes,  for  mundi),  in  imitation  of 
Christ;  and  'omnino  se  exuit  et  nudavit,'  stripped  herself  utterly  naked, 
to  follow  Him  naked,  in  the  steps  of  poverty." 

P.  269.   "  All  worldly  goods."    A  paraphrase  of  her  own  words. 

P.  270.  "  Thine  own  needs."  "  But  when  she  was  going  to  renounce 
her  possessions  also,  the  prudent  Conrad  stopped  her."  The  reflections 
which  follow  are  Dietrich's  own. 

P.  271.   "The  likeness  of  the  fiend,"  etc.     I   have  put  this  daring 


322 


NOTES. 


expression  into  Conrad's  mouth,  as  the  ideal  outcome  of  the  teaching  of 
Conrad's  age  on  this  point  —  and  of  much  teaching  also  which  miscalls 
itself  Protestant,  in  our  own  age.  The  doctrine  is  not,  of  course,  to  be 
found  totidcm  verbis  in  the  formularies  of  any  sect  —  yet  almost  all  sects 
preach  it,  and  quote  Scripture  for  it  as  boldly  as  Conrad  —  the  Romish 
Saint  alone  carries  it  honestly  out  into  practice. 

P.  272.  "  With  pine  boughs."  Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  2.  "  Entering  a  certain 
desolate  court,  she  betook  herself,  'sub  gradu  cujusdam  caminatae,'  to  the 
projection  of  a  certain  furnace,  where  she  roofed  herself  in  with  boughs. 
...  In  the  meantime,  in  the  town  of  Marpurg,  was  built  for  her  a  hum- 
ble cottage  of  clay  and  timber." 

P.  273.   "  Count  Pama."     Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  6. 

P.  274.  "Isentrudis  and  Guta."  Cf.  Lib.  VII.  §  4.  "Now  Conrad, 
as  a  prudent  man,  perceiving  that  this  disciple  of  Christ  wished  to  arrive 
at  the  highest  pitch  of  perfection,  studied  to  remove  all  which  he  thought 
would  retard  her,  .  .  .  and  therefore  drove  from  her  all  those  of  her 
former  household  in  whom  she  used  to  solace  or  delight  herself.  Thus 
the  holy  priest  deprived  this  servant  of  God  of  all  society,  that  so  the 
constancy  of  her  obedience  might  become  known,  and  occasion  might 
be  given  to  her  for  clinging  to  God  alone." 

Ibid.   "  A  leprous  boy."     Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  8. 

She  had  several  of  these  protege's,  successively,  whose  diseases  are 
too  disgusting  to  be  specified,  on  whom  she  lavished  the  most  menial 
cares.  All  the  other  stories  of  her  benevolence  which  occur  in  these  two 
pages  are  related  by  Dietrich. 

P.  275.  "  Mighty  to  save."  Cf.  Lib.  VII.  §  7.  Where  we  read,  amongst 
other  matters,  how  the  objects  of  her  prayers  used  to  become  while  she 
was  speaking  so  intensely  hot,  that  they  not  only  smoked,  and  nearly 
melted,  but  burnt  the  fingers  of  those  who  touched  them  :  from  whence 
Dietrich  bids  us  "  learn  with  what  an  ardor  of  charity  she  used  to  burn, 
who  would  dry  up  with  her  heat  the  flow  of  worldly  desire,  and  inflame 
to  the  love  of  eternity." 

P.  277.   "  Lands  and  titles,"     Cf.  Lib.  V.  §§  7,  8. 

P.  278.  "  Spinning  wool."  Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  6.  "  And  crossing  himself 
for  wonder,  the  Count  Pama  cried  out  and  said,  '  Was  it  ever  seen  to 
this  day  that  a  king's  daughter  should  spin  wool  ? '  All  his  messages 
from  her  father  (says  Dietrich)  were  of  no  avail." 

P.  282.  "To  do  her  penance."  Cf.  Lib.  VII.  §  4.  "Now  he  had 
placed  with  her  certain  austere  women,  from  whom  she  endured  much 
oppression  patiently  for  Christ's  sake,  who,  watching  her  rigidly,  fre- 
quently reported  her  to  her  master  for  having  transgressed  her  obedience 


NOTES.  323 


in  giving  something  to  the  poor,  or  begging  others  to  give.  And  when 
thus  accused  she  often  received  many  blows  from  her  master,  insomuch 
that  he  used  to  strike  her  in  the  face,  which  she  earnestly  desired  to 
endure  patiently  in  memory  of  the  stripes  of  the  Lord." 

P.  284.  "That  she  dared  not."  Cf.  Lib.  VII.  §  4.  "  When  her  most 
intimate  friends,  Isentrudis  and  Guta"  (whom  another  account  describes 
as  in  great  poverty),  "came  to  see  her,  she  dared  not  give  them  anything, 
even  for  food,  nor,  without  special  licence,  salute  them." 

Ibid.  "To  bear  within  us."  "Seeing  in  the  church  of  certain  monks 
who  'professed  poverty,'  images  sumptuously  gilt,  she  said  to  about 
twenty-four  of  them,  '  Von  had  better  to  have  spent  this  money  on  your 
own  food  and  clothes,  for  we  ought  to  have  the  reality  of  these  images 
written  in  our  hearts.'  And  if  any  one  mentioned  a  beautiful  image  before 
her  she  used  to  say, '  I  have  no  need  of  such  an  image.  I  carry  the  thing 
itself  in  my  bosom. ' " 

Ihid.   "  Even  on  her  bed."     Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §§  5,  6. 

P.  286.  "My  mother  rose."  Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  8.  "Her  mother,  who 
had  been  long  ago "  (when  Elizabeth  was  nine  years  old)  "  miserably 
slain  by  the  Hungarians,  appeared  to  her  in  her  dreams  upon  her  knees, 
and  said,  '  My  beloved  child !  pray  for  the  agonies  which  I  surfer ;  for 
thou  canst.'  Elizabeth,  waking,  prayed  earnestly,  and  falling  asleep 
again,  her  mother  appeared  to  her  and  told  her  that  she  was  freed,  and 
that  Elizabeth's  prayers  would  hereafter  benefit  all  who  invoked  her." 
Of  the  causes  of  her  mother's  murder  the  less  that  is  said  the  better,  but 
the  prudent  letter  which  the  Bishop  of  Gran  sent  back  when  asked  to 
join  in  the  conspiracy  against  her  is  worthy  notice.  "  Kcginam  occidcrc 
no/iff  timcrc  bonum  est.  Si  omncs  conscntiunt  c«o  non  contradict"  To  be 
read  as  a  full  consent,  or  as  a  flat  refusal,  according  to  the  success  of  the 
plot. 

1'.  JS8.  "Any  living  soul."  Dietrich  has  much  on  this  point,  headed, 
"  How  Master  Conrad  exercised  Saint  Elizabeth  in  the  breaking  of  her 
own  will.  .  .  .  And  at  last  forbad  her  entirely  to  give  alms ;  whereon  she 
employed  herself  in  washing  lepers  and  other  infirm  folk.  In  the  mean- 
time she  was  languishing,  and  inwardly  tortured  with  emotions  of  com- 
passion." 

I  may  here  say  that  in  representing  Elizabeth's  early  death  as  acceler- 
ated by  a  "broken  heart"  I  have,  I  believe,  told  the  truth,  though  I  find 
no  hint  of  anything  of  the  kind  in  Dietrich.  The  religious  public  of  a 
petty  town  in  the  thirteenth  century  round  the  death-bed  of  a  royal  saint 
would  of  course  treasure  up  most  carefully  all  incidents  connected  with 
her  latter  days ;  but  they  would  hardly  record  sentiments  or  expressions 


324 


NOTES. 


which  might  seem  to  their  notions  to  derogate  in  any  way  from  her  saint 
ship.  Dietrich,  too,  looking  at  the  subject  as  a  monk  and  not  as  a  man, 
would  consider  it  just  as  much  his  duty  to  make  her  death-scene  raptu- 
rous as  to  make  both  her  life  and  her  tomb  miraculous.  I  have  composed 
these  last  scenes  in  the  belief  that  Elizabeth  and  all  her  compeers  will  be 
recognized  as  real  saints,  in  proportion  as  they  are  felt  to  have  been  real 
men  and  women. 

P.  289.  "  Eructate  sweet  doctrine."  The  expressions  are  Dietrich's 
own. 

Ibid.    "  In  her  coffin  yet."     Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  I. 

P.  290.   "  So  she  said."     Cf.  Ibid. 

Ibid.  "  The  poor  of  Christ."  "  She  begged  her  master  to  distribute 
all  to  the  poor,  except  a  worthless  tunic  in  which  she  wished  to  be 
buried.  She  made  no  will :  she  would  have  no  heir  beside  Christ "  (/.  e. 
the  poor). 

Ibid.   "  Martha  and  their  brother,"  etc. 

I  have  compressed  the  events  of  several  days  into  one  in  this  scene. 
I  give  Dietrich's  own  account,  omitting  his  reflections. 

"  When  she  had  been  ill  twelve  days  and  more,  one  of  her  maids  sitting 
by  her  bed  heard  in  her  throat  a  very  sweet  sound,  .  .  .  and  saying, '  Oh, 
my  mistress,  how  sweetly  thou  didst  sing ! '  she  answered,  '  I  tell  thee,  I 
heard  a  little  bird  between  me  and  the  wall  sing  merrily ;  who  with  his 
sweet  song  so  stirred  me  up  that  I  could  not  but  sing  myself.'" 

Again,  §  3.  "The  last  day  she  remained  till  evening  most  devout, 
having  been  made  partaker  of  the  celestial  table,  and  inebriated  with  that 
most  pure  blood  of  life,  which  is  Christ.  The  word  of  truth  was  contin- 
ually on  her  lips,  and  opening  her  mouth  of  wisdom,  she  spake  of  the 
best  things,  which  she  had  heard  in  sermons ;  eructating  from  her  heart 
good  words,  and  the  law  of  clemency  was  heard  on  her  tongue.  She  told 
frorn  the  abundance  of  her  heart  how  the  Lord  Jesus  condescended  to 
console  Mary  and  Martha  at  the  raising  again  of  their  brother  Lazarus, 
and  then,  speaking  of  His  weeping  with  them  over  the  dead,  she  eruc- 
tated the  memory  of  the  abundance  of  the  Lord's  sweetness,  affectu  ct 
ejfcctu  (in  feeling  and  expression?).  Certain  religious  persons  who  were 
present,  hearing  these  words,  fired  with  devotion  by  the  grace  which 
filled  her  lips,  melted  into  tears.  To  whom  the  saint  of  God,  now  dying, 
recalled  the  sweet  words  of  her  Lord  as  He  went  to  death,  saying, 
'  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,'  etc.  Having  said  this  she  was  silent.  A  won- 
derful thing.  Then  most  sweet  voices  were  heard  in  her  throat,  without 
any  motion  of  her  lips;  and  she  asked  of  those  round,  'Did  ye  not  hear 
some  singing  with  me  ? '  '  Whereon  none  of  the  faithful  are  allowed  to 


NOTES.  325 


doubt,'  says  Dietrich,  '  when  she  herself  heard  the  harmony  of  the  heav- 
enly hosts,  etc.  etc.'  .  .  .  From  that  time  to  twilight  she  lay,  as  if  exultant 
and  jubilant,  showing  signs  of  remarkable  devotion,  till  the  crowing  of 
the  cock.  Then,  as  if  secure  in  the  Lord,  she  said  to  the  bystanders, 
'What  should  we  do  if  the  fiend  showed  himself  to  us?'  And  shortly 
afterwards,  with  a  loud  and  clear  voice,  '  Fly !  fly ! '  as  if  repelling  the 
daemon." 

"  At  the  cock-crow  she  said,  '  Here  is  the  hour  in  which  the  Virgin 
brought  forth  her  child  Jesus  and  laid  him  in  a  manger.  .  .  .  Let  us  talk 
of  Him,  and  of  that  new  star  which  He  created  by  His  omnipotence, 
which  never  before  was  seen.'  '  For  these '  (says  Montanus  in  her  name) 
'  are  the  venerable  mysteries  of  our  faith,  our  richest  blessings,  our  fairest 
ornaments :  in  these  all  the  reason  of  our  hope  flourishes,  faith  grows, 
charity  burns.' " 

The  novelty  of  the  style  and  matter  will,  I  hope,  excuse  its  prolixity 
with  most  readers.  If  not,  I  have  still  my  reasons  for  inserting  the 
greater  part  of  this  chapter. 

P.  293.  "  I  demand  it."  How  far  I  am  justified  in  putting  such  fears 
into  her  mouth  the  reader  may  judge.  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  5.  "The  devo- 
tion of  the  people  demanding  it,  her  body  was  left  unburied  till  the  fourth 
•Jay  in  the  midst  of  a  multitude."  .  .  . 

"  The  flesh,"  says  Dietrich,  "  had  the  tenderness  of  a  living  body,  and 
was  easily  moved  hither  and  thither  at  the  will  of  those  who  handled  it. 
.  .  .  And  many,  sublime  in  the  valor  of  their  faith,  tore  off  the  hair  of 
her  head  and  the  nails  of  her  fingers  ('  even  the  tips  of  her  ears,  et  mam- 
illarnm  papillas^  says  untranslatably  Montanus  of  Spire),  and  kept  them 
as  relics."  The  reference  relating  to  the  pictures  of  her  disciplines  and 
the  effect  which  they  produced  on  the  crowd  I  have  unfortunately  lost. 

V.  294.  "And  yet  no  pain."  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  4.  "She  said,  'Though 
I  am  weak  I  feel  no  disease  or  pain,'  and  so  through  that  whole  day  and 
night,  as  hath  been  said,  having  been  elevated  with  most  holy  affections 
of  mind  towards  God,  and  inflamed  in  spirit  with  most  divine  utterances 
and  conversations,  at  length  she  rested  from  jubilating,  and  inclining  her 
head  as  if  falling  into  a  sweet  sleep,  expired." 

NOTES  TO  ACT  V. 

P.  294.  "Canonization."  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  10.  If  I  have  in  the  last 
scene  been  guilty  of  a  small  anachronism,  I  have  in  this  been  guilty  of  a 
great  one.  Conrad  was  of  course  a  prime  means  of  Elizabeth's  canoniza- 
tion, and,  as  Dietrich  and  his  own  "  Letter  to  Pope  Gregory  the  Ninth  " 


326  NOTES. 


show,  collected,  and  pressed  on  the  notice  of  the  Archbishop  of  Maintz, 
the  miraculous  statements  necessary  for  that  honor.  But  he  died  two 
years  before  the  actual  publication  of  her  canonization.  It  appeared  to 
me  that  by  following  the  exact  facts  I  must  either  lose  sight  of  the  final 
triumph,  which  connects  my  heroine  for  ever  with  Germany  and  all 
Romish  Christendom,  and  is  the  very  culmination  of  the  whole  story,  or 
relinquish  my  only  opportunity  of  doing  Conrad  justice,  by  exhibiting 
the  remaining  side  of  his  character. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  have  erred,  and  that  the  most  strict  historic  truth 
would  have  coincided,  as  usual,  with  the  highest  artistic  effect,  while  it 
would  only  have  corroborated  the  moral  of  my  poem,  supposing  that  there 
is  one.  But  I  was  fettered  by  the  poverty  of  my  own  imagination,  and 
"  do  manus  lectoribus." 

P.  295.  "Third  Minors."  The  order  of  the  Third  Minors  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi  was  an  invention  of  the  comprehensive  mind  of  that 
truly  great  man,  by  which  "  worldlings  "  were  enabled  to  participate  in 
the  spiritual  advantages  of  the  Franciscan  rule  and  discipline  without 
neglect  or  suspension  of  their  civic  and  family  duties.  But  it  was  an 
institution  too  enlightened  for  its  age ;  and  family  and  civic  ties  were 
destined  for  a  far  nobler  consecration.  The  order  was  persecuted  and 
all  but  exterminated  by  the  jealousy  of  the  Regular  Monks,  not,  it  seems, 
without  papal  connivance.  Within  a  few  years  after  its  foundation  it 
numbered  amongst  its  members  the  noblest  knights  and  ladies  of  Chris- 
tendom, St.  Louis  of  France  among  the  number. 

P.  296.  "Lest  he  fall."  Cf.  Fleury,  Eccl.  Annals,  in  Anno  1233. 
"Doctor  Conrad  of  Marpurg,  the  King  Henry,  son  of  the  Emperor 
Frederick,  etc.,  called  an  Assembly  at  Mayence  to  examine  persons 
accused  as  heretics.  Among  whom  the  Count  of  Saym  demanded  a  delay 
to  justify  himself.  As  for  the  others  who  did  not  appear,  Conrad  gave 
the  cross  to  those*  who  would  take  up  arms  against  them.  At  which 
these  supposed  heretics  were  so  irritated,  that  on  his  return  they  lay  in 
wait  for  him  near  Marpurg,  and  killed  him,  with  brother  Gerard,  of  the 
order  of  Minors,  a  holy  man.  Conrad  was  accused  of  precipitation  in 
his  judgments,  and  of  having  burned  trop  tegercment,  under  pretext  of 
heresy,  many  noble  and  not  noble,  monks,  nuns,  burghers,  and  peasants. 
For  he  had  them  executed  the  same  day  that  they  were  accused,  without 
allowing  any  appeal." 

P.  298.  "The  Kaiser."  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  12,  for  a  list  of  the  worthies 
present. 

P.  299.  "  A  Zingar  wizard."  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  I.  The  Magician's  name 
was  Klingsohr.  He  has  been  introduced  by  Novalis  into  his  novel  of 


327 


Hcinrich  Von  Ofterdingen,  as  present  at  the  famous  contest  of  the  Minne- 
singers on  the  Wartburg.  Here  is  Dietrich's  account :  — 

"There  were  in  those  days  in  the  Landgrave's  court  six  knights, 
nobles,  etc.,  etc.,  '  cantilenarum  confectores  summi,'  song-wrights  of  the 
highest  excellence"  (either  one  of  them  or  Klingsohr  himself  was  the 
author  of  the  Nibelungen-lied,  and  the  Heldenbuch). 

"  Now  there  dwelt  then  in  the  parts  of  Hungary,  in  the  land  which  is 
called  the  '  Seven  Castles,'  a  certain  rich  nobleman,  worth  3,000  marks  a 
year,  a  philosopher,  practised  from  his  youth  in  secular  literature,  but 
nevertheless  learned  in  the  sciences  of  Necromancy  and  Astronomy. 
This  master  Klingsohr  was  sent  for  by  the  Prince  to  judge  between  the 
songs  of  these  knights  aforesaid.  Who,  before  he  was  introduced  to  the 
Landgrave,  sitting  one  night  in  Eisenach,  in  the  court  of  his  lodging, 
looked  very  earnestly  upon  the  stars,  and  being  asked  if  he  had  perceived 
any  secrets,  '  Know  that  this  night  is  born  a  daughter  to  the  King  of 
Hungary,  who  shall  be  called  Elizabeth,  and  shall  be  a  saint,  and  shall  be 
given  to  wife  to  the  son  of  this  prince,  in  the  fame  of  whose  sanctity  all 
the  earth  shall  exult  and  be  exalted.' 

"  See !  —  He  who  by  Balaam  the  wizard  foretold  the  mystery  of  his 
own  incarnation,  himself  foretold  by  this  wizard  the  name  and  birth  of 
his  fore-chosen  handmaid  Elizabeth."  (A  comparison,  of  which  Basnage 
says,  that  he  cannot  deny  it  to  be  intolerable.)  I  am  not  bound  to 
explain  all  strange  stories,  but  considering  who  and  whence  Klingsohr 
was,  and  the  fact  that  the  treaty  of  espousals  took  place  two  months 
afterwards,  "  adhuc  sugens  ubera  desponsata  est,"  it  is  not  impossible 
that  King  Andrew  and  his  sage  vassal  may  have  had  some  previous  con- 
versation on  the  destination  of  the  unborn  princess. 

P.  299.  "  A  robe."  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §  9,  for  this  story,  on  which  Dietrich 
observes,  "  Thus  did  her  Heavenly  Father  clothe  his  lily  Elizabeth,  as 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  could  not  do." 

Ibid.  "  The  Incarnate  Son."  This  story  is  told,  I  think,  by  Surias, 
and  has  been  introduced,  with  an  illustration  by  a  German  artist  of  the 
highest  note,  into  a  modern  prose  biography  of  this  saint.  (I  have 
omitted  much  more  of  the  same  kind.) 

P.  300.  "Sainthood's  palm."  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §§  7,  8,  9.  "While  to 
declare  the  merits  of  his  handmaid  Elizabeth,  in  the  place  where  her 
body  rested,  Almighty  God  was  thus  multiplying  the  badges  of  her 
virtues  (/.  f.  miracles),  two  altars  were  built  in  her  praise  in  that  chapel, 
which  while  Siegfried,  Archbishop  of  Mayence,  was  consecrating,  as  he 
had  evidently  been  commanded  in  a  vision,  at  the  prayers  of  that  devout 
man  master  Conrad,  preacher  of  the  word  of  God;  the  said  preacher 


328  NOTES. 


commanded  all  who  had  received  any  grace  of  healing  from  the  merits  of 
Elizabeth,  to  appear  next  day  before  the  Archbishop  and  faithfully  prove 
their  assertions  by  witnesses.  .  .  .  Then  the  Most  Holy  Father,  Pope 
Gregory  the  Ninth,  having  made  diligent  examination   of  the  miracles 
transmitted  to  him,  trusting  at  the   same  time   to  mature  and  prudent 
counsels,  and  the  Holy  Spirit's  providence,  above  all,  so  ordaining,  his 
clemency  disposing,  and  his  grace  admonishing,  decreed  that  the  Blessed 
Kli/abcth  was  to  be  written  among  the  catalogue  of  the  saints  on  earth, 
since  in  heaven  she  rejoices  as  written  in  the  Book  of  Life."  .  .  . 
Then  follow  four  chapters,  headed  severally  — 
§  9.   "  Of  the  solemn  canonization  of  the  Blessed  Elizabeth." 
§10.    "Of   the   translation   of   the    Blessed   Elizabeth    (and  how  the 
corpse  when  exposed  diffused  round  a  miraculous  fragrance)." 

§11.  "Of  the  desire  of  the  people  to  see,  embrace,  and  kiss  (says 
Dietrich)  those  sacred  bones,  the  organs  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  from  which 
flowed  so  many  graces  of  sanctities." 

§  12.  "  Of  the  sublime  persons  who  were  present,  and  their  oblations." 
§  13.  "A  consideration  of  the  divine  mercy  about  this  matter." 
"  Behold  !  she  who  despised  the  glory  of  the  world,  and  refused  the  com- 
pany of  magnates,  is  magnificently  honored  by  the  dignity  of  the  Ponti- 
fical office,  and  the  reverent  care  of  Imperial  Majesty.  And  she  who, 
seeking  the  lowest  place  in  this  life,  sat  on  the  ground,  slept  in  the  dust, 
is  now  raised  on  high,  by  the  hands  of  Kings  and  Princes.  ...  It 
transcends  all  heights  of  temporal  glory,  to  have  been  made  like  the 
saints  in  glory.  For  all  the  rich  among  the  people  '  vultum  ejus  depre- 
cantur '  (pray  for  the  light  of  her  countenance),  and  kings  and  princes 
offer  gifts,,  magnates  adore  her,  and  all  nations  serve  her.  Nor  without 
reason,  for  '  she  sold  all  and  gave  to  the  poor,'  and  counting  all  her  sub- 
stance for  nothing,  bought  for  herself  this  priceless  pearl  of  eternity.' " 
One  would  be  sorry  to  believe  that  such  utterly  mean  considerations  of 
selfish  vanity,  expressing  as  they  do  an  extreme  respect  for  the  very 
pomps  and  vanities  which  they  praise  the  saints  for  despising,  really 
went  to  the  making  of  any  saint,  Romish  or  other. 

§  14.  "  Of  the  sacred  oil  which  flowed  from  the  bones  of  Elizabeth." 
I  subjoin  the  "  Epilogus." 

"Moreover,  even  as  the  elect  handmaid  of  God,  the  most  blessed 
Eli/.abeth,  had  shone  during  her  life  with  wonderful  signs  of  her  virtues, 
so  since  the  day  of  her  blessed  departure  up  to  the  present  time,  she  is 
resplendent  through  the  various  quarters  of  the  world  with  illustrious 
prodigies  of  miracles,  the  Divine  power  glorifying  her.  For  to  the  blind, 
dumb,  deaf,  and  lame,  dropsical,  possessed,  and  leprous,  shipwrecked, 


NOTES.  329 


and  captives,  '  ipsius  meritis,'  as  a  reward  for  her  holy  deeds,  remedies 
are  conferred.  Also,  to  all  diseases,  necessities,  and  dangers,  assistance 
is  given.  And,  moreover,  by  the  many  corpses,  ' puta  scdccim?  say  six- 
teen, wonderfully  raised  to  life  by  herself,  becomes  known  to  the  faithful 
the  magnificence  of  the  virtues  of  the  Most  High  glorifying  His  saint.  To 
that  Most  High  be  glory  and  honor  for  ever.  Amen." 

So  ends  Dietrich's  story.  The  reader  has  by  this  time,  I  hope,  read 
enough  to  justify,  in  every  sense,  Conrad's  "A  corpse  or  two  was  raised, 
they  say,  last  week,"  and  much  more  of  the  funeral  oration  which  I  have 
put  into  his  mouth. 

P.  301.   "  Gallant  gentleman."     Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  6. 

P.  302.   "Took  the  crown."     Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  12. 

Ibid.  The  "  olive  "  and  the  "  pearl  "  are  Dietrich's  own  figures.  The 
others  follow  the  method  of  scriptural  interpretation,  usual  in  the  writers 
of  that  age. 

P.  311.  "Domini  canes,"  "The  Lord's  hounds,"  a  punning  sobriquet 
of  the  Dominican  inquisitors,  in  allusion  to  their  profession. 

P.  312.  "  Folquet,"  Bishop  of  Toulouse,  who  had  been  in  early  life  a 
Troubadour,  distinguished  himself  by  his  ferocity  and  perfidy  in  the  cru- 
sade against  the  Albigenses  and  Troubadours,  especially  at  the  surrender 
of  Toulouse,  in  company  with  his  chief  abettor,  the  infamous  Simon  de 
Mimtfort.  He  died  A.  D.  1231.  —  See  Sismondi,  Lit.  of  Southern  Europe, 
Cap.  VI. 


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THE  NARRATIVE   OF  CAPTAIN  COIGNET, 

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THE  EVERY  DAY  OF  LIFE.     By  the  REV.  J.  R.  MILLER, 

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WORDSWORTH'S    POEMS.       (Selections.)       Illustrated    in 

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WALTON'S  ANGLER.    New  edition.     Complete  in  two  volumes 
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Miss  Polly  Button,  reduced  in  fortune,  makes  herself  a  power  in  her  church  by 
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EQUITABLE    TAXATION.       A    series    of    Prize    Essays    by 

WALTER  E.  WEYL,  ROBERT  LUCE,  BOLTON  HALL,  and  others.     Introduction 

by  the  Hon.  Jonathan  A.  Lane.    Biographical  sketches  and  portraits.    i2mo,  .75. 

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A    PLEA    FOR    THE   GOSPEL.     By  the   REV.    GEORGE  D. 

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LES  MISERABLES.  BY  VICTOR  HUGO.  Translated  by  Isabel 
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trations. i2ino.  Cloth,  gilt  top,  boxed,  #3.00.  White  back,  fancy  paper  sides, 
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TENNYSON'S  POEMS.  New  edition.  Complete  in  two 
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(21) 


STANDARD  WORKS  IN  SETS. 

CHARLES    DICKENS'S    COMPLETE    WORKS.     3O 

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WASHINGTON    IRVING'S     COMPLETE     WORKS. 

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BOURRIENNE'S     MEMOIRS    OF    NAPOLEON.     By 

Louis  ANTOINE  FAUVELET  DE  BOUKKIENNE,  his  private  secretary.  Edited  by 
COL.  R.  W.  PHIPPS.  Latest  American  edition,  with  34  full-page  portraits  and 
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TENNYSON'S  WORKS-  Handy  volume  edition.  S  vols. 
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VON    SYBEL'S    "GERMAN    EMPIRE."     Based  chiefly 

upon  Prussian  State  Documents,  by  HEINRICH  VON  SYBEL.  Translated  by 
Marshall  Livingston  Perrin,  assisted  by  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.  Completed  in 
5  vols.  Cloth,  per  svt,  $10.00;  half  morocco,  $20.00. 

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T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.,  -  New  York  and  Boston. 

(26) 


VALUABLE  BOOKS  OF  REFERENCE. 

A    DICTIONARY    OF   QUOTATIONS    FROM    THE 
POETS.     By  ANNA  L.  ^'AKD.    Based  upon  Bonn's  edition,  with 

numerous  additions  from  American  authors.  Carefully  revised  and  corrected,  with 
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"  The  more  competent  the  critic  who  examines  it,  the  heartier  will  be  his  verdict."  — 
'gatioHttlitt, 

A  DICTIONARY  OF  QUOTATIONS  IN    PROSE  from 

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complete  and  accurate  index  to  quotations,  index  of  authors,  topical  index,  list  of 
translators,  chronological  data.  etc.  By  ANNA  L.  WARD,  author  of  "A  Dictionary 
of  Quotations  from  the  Poets."  701  pp.,  crown  8vo.  Cloth,  bevelled  boards,  <2.oo; 
halt  calf,  #4.00. 

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literary  worker,  student,  and  reader. 

"  One  of  the  most  useful  books  of  its  class  that  ever  came  under  our  notice."  —  Book 
Buyer. 

ROGET'S     THESAURUS     OF    ENGLISH     WORDS 
AND   PHRASES.     NKW   EDITION.     Revised  and  enlarged  by 
the  author's  son,  J.  L.  Roget.      Crown    8vo,  cloth  extra,  $2.00 .  crOwn  8vo,  cloth 
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Dr.  Roget's  system  of  classified  categories  based  on  logical  thought  has  never  been 
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INITIALS  AND  PSEUDONYMS.  A  Dictionary  of  Literary 
Disguises.  By  WILLIAM  GUSHING,  A.M.  Giving  the  noms  de  plume  and  real 
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etc.  First  Series.  —  Royal  8vo,  cloth,  #5.00 ;  half  morocco,  $7.50.  Second  Series. — 
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THE  PORTABLE  COMMENTARY.    By  JAMIESON,  FAUS- 

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This  convenient  manual  has  a  world-wide  reputation  as  the  best  book  of  its  kind  in 
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A    CENTURY  OF    AMERICAN    LITERATURE.       Se- 

lected  and  arranged  by  HUNTINGTON  SMITH.  A  new  and  popular  handbook  of 
American  literature,  comprising  selections  from  a  hundred  authors  from  Franklin  to 
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"  It  is  in  my  opinion  by  fir  the  best  collection  of  English  poetry  ever  made."     //.    T. 

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THE  CAMBRIDGE  BOOK  OF  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Smillie,  and  others.      Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew.     Over  nine  hundred  pages 
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THOMAS  Y,  CROWELL  &  CO,,  New  York  &  Boston. 

(27) 


LIBRARY  OF  ECONOHICS  &  POLITICS. 

MESSRS.  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.  take  pleasure  in  announcing 
that  they  have  completed  arrangements  for  a  series  of  volumes  dealing 
with  timely  topics  in  a  fresh,  interesting,  and  instructive  manner.  The 
series  will  be  entitled  "  Library  of  Economics  and  Politics,"  and  will  be 
under  the  editorial  control  of  Professor  Richard  T.  Ely,  Ph.D.,  LL.D., 
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It  is  proposed  to  issue  volumes  at  irregular  intervals,  and  to  supply  only 
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The  volumes  for  which  arrangements  have  thus  far  been  made  are :  — 

First,  "THE  INDEPENDENT  TREASURY  SYSTEM 
OF  THE  UNITED  STATES."  An  historical  and  critical  ex- 
amination of  this  important  institution;  a  work  which  will  prove  valuable 
to  bankers  and  financiers  generally,  as  well  as  to  scholars.  The  author  of 
this  volume  is  Mr.  DAVID  KINLEY,  A.B.,  Assistant  and  Fellow  in  Eco- 
nomics in  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 

Second,  "AMERICAN  CHARITIES:  A  STUDY  IN 
PHILANTHROPY  AND  ECONOMICS."  By  AMOS  G. 
WARNER,  Ph.D.,  Superintendent  of  Charities  for  the  District  of  Columbia, 
and  Professor-elect  of  Economics  in  the  Leland-Stanford,  Jr.  University. 
This  work  will  be  the  first  exhaustive  treatment  of  the  subject.  It  will  be 
a  careful  presentation  of  theory  and  of  practical  experience,  making  it  an 
indispensable  hand-book  for  all  those  who  are  theoretically  and  practically 
interested  in  charities. 

Third,  "  REPUDIATION  OF  STATE  DEBTS  IN 
THE  UNITED  STATES."  By  WILLIAM  A.  SCOTT,  Ph.D., 
Assistant  Professor  of  Political  Economy  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 
This  is  a  work  which  deals  with  one  of  the  most  important  phases  of 
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well  as  to  scholars  interested  in  our  financial  history  and  institutions. 

The  editor  of  the  series  promises  two  volumes.  One  on  Socialism, 
which  will  be  considered  descriptively  and  critically.  The  work  will  be 
divided  into  four  parts:  Part  One  treating  of  the  Nature  of  Socialism, 
Part  Two  of  the  Strength  of  Socialism,  Part  Three  of  the  Weakness  of 
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The  other  volume  which  the  editor  will  contribute,  will  be  called  "Sug- 
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labor  organizations,  the  eight-hour  day,  the  widening  and  deepening  range 
of  ethical  obligation,  etc. 

ALBERT  SHAW,  Ph.D.,  American  Editor  of  the  "Review  of  Reviews," 
is  engaged  in  the  preparation  of  a  work  suitable  for  the  series,  the  title 
of  which  will  be  announced  subsequently.  The  publishers,  however, 
venture  to  assure  the  public  that  the  work  by  Dr.  SHAW  will  be  one  of 
the  most  popular  and  useful  volumes  in  the  series. 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL 

(28) 


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